


Hiraeth

by billspilledquill



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alexander 'even if I had another chance I will still screw everything up' Hamilton, Eliza x Happiness plz, F/M, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, I am writing a whole fic about Hamilton's eyes stay safe y'all, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2018-09-24 04:43:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 45,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9702743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/pseuds/billspilledquill
Summary: Lust. Gluttony. Greed. Laziness. Wrath. Envy. Pride.Seven deadly sins. Seven desires. Entwined inked fates of human disasters, lushly ran through his mind like that shot of pistol, that shot he threw away. In that morning sky, cerulean and that hint of yellow, the beginning of a hurricane, the end of winter.As Alexander Hamilton recalled the memories of his loved ones, he realized that he finally ran out of time. So when he found himself in a ship headed for New York when he reopened his eyes, he wondered if this was another prank that God send to him.In which he got another chance, and rewrote his deliverance another way around.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> hiraeth(n) a homesickness for a home to which you cannot return, a home which maybe never was; the nostalgia, the yearning, the grief for the lost places of your past.

 

Lust. Gluttony. Greed. Laziness. Wrath. Envy. _Pride_.

Seven deadly sins. Seven desires. Entwined inked fates of human disasters, lushly ran through his mind like that shot of pistol, that shot he threw away. In that morning sky, cerulean and that hint of yellow, the beginning of a hurricane, the end of winter.

•••

He remembered that illuminate, almost illustrated cry, he remembered the soft and light touch, that surge of pride and laziness suddenly wrapped him around like his newborn son, hand on his, looking at him with a curiosity so amazed and gentle that he felt his heart melt right on sight.

_You have your mother's soul, so clean, without any envy nor greed._

He bent down to his little bedside and kissed his puffed cheeks with a tenderness he never thought he possessed, he never earned. _Philip_. He whispered like a child, like a father. Again and again until he let out a laugh, _Philip_.

He didn't realized he was crying until Eliza came and shushed him with soft hands on his face, saying sweet nothings when the quiet tears became broken sobs and he collapsed in his wife's arms, feeling warm and secure.

"Love," she began with a carefulness of a mother, "look at our son."

Because his mother was holding him too, when she died, her boned and cold hands were grudgingly and stubbornly clutching his, telling him that _no, son, you don't die. Look at you, alive and alive and **alive** , _and repeated and repeated to no end. She only stopped when she stopped breathing, but even then, her mouth formed the word like this is the passcode to heaven itself.

_Alexander—_

Her face was painted with a polished crimson, eyes shined with the same beautiful color than his son as she smiled peacefully, clean of any dirt this world might dried her in. Then the thick lashes shadowed her eyes until she closed them slowly.

"Isn't he a blessing of God itself?" She asked with a certainty that did not permit opposition. "Alexander?"

He remembered his lustrous poems back on St.Croix, those images and illustrations he did invented for the sake of public and his own imagination, he often wondered what a marriage would be. An political arrangement for the only seek of power and domination? An pure and wholesome fondness and affection with love and smiles and laughs and wholeheartedly confessions? Lustful and an arranged, outrageous pair?

He searched out her hand like that piece of wood he did been holding in order to survive at that hurricane, when he struggled and panicked and no one was there. He knew for a long time that trust was something we can't gained, but situations dependent. Nobody will be here if they are on their knees, praying the hell or heaven to let them live.

Nobody was there, he found that himself praying for the first time that this child would— should not be having the same astonishingly crazy memories.

— _Because alive is so delightful that it became bitter in his lungs, stealing every seconds he had to survive._

"Yes, yes he is, my Betsy." Her hands were warm, her fingers rough but were always softly sweet. Almost like an older sister, the best sister, he thought. His other hand joined the baby, large on small ones, and his heart heard his mother's blessing because they are alive.

He realized his marriage was simply a way to prove to his mother that he was alive, if nothing else.

•••

John Laurens died. Unlike everyone's claims, it seemed that he died before him.

Blood and blood and bones and bodies and war were in his eyes, but he then thought that maybe it was his eyes who were drained in this cycle of vengeance and suffering.

Cries never stopped.

"Alex," he still recalled the way his friend voiced his name, "tomorrow there will be more of us." He then smiled and waved his goodbye like the soldier he was. "Raise a glass for me! For _freedom_!"

Death never stopped.

News were spreading like those wireless fire, and he was there, numbly sitting in his room, wondering if life took away all, will abyssal walking corpse will be considered a life. Because he never drowned, not once, not in those deep and endless water, not in bloody and lifelong war, not in his friend's deaths and certainly not for himself.

The world was being ruled and slaughtered by the cycle of death and rebirth, revenge and forgiveness, all he did was choose, but he never picked the good one. Because none of it was the right one in the beginning.

So he craved and waved and smiled and prayed for that decision will came back later, because later was a blessing, an explosion where no one knew where it will blow.

Walking along in New York's streets seemed less famished, but old, less busy, more emptying. Snow started slowly pouring down like some mocking joke that God made him believe ever since he was fourteen. The even more quiet streets made the heavy breathing of another presence became palpable. He turned his head, seeing Aaron Burr— of all people, walking with fast steps to get to him.

Like an unstoppable force, unshakable will, something Aaron Burr will never possessed.

"Senator Burr," he greeted with no real emotion nor particular feeling except for the surprising fact that he did wanted to greet him, "what can I do to you, sir?"

He was looking especially tired, dark circles declared possession of his face, and his usually falsehood manner was replaced by an angry but authentic expression. Brown skin shadowing some red of hostility. He looked breathless, taking small gasps to level his breath even.

"Alexander." He started, "What did they said to you to sell New York city down the river?" He inhaled a great quantity of cold air. "Tell me what happened with you and Jefferson's meeting." He locked his gaze at him, intense and competitive with the coldness in the air, as if daring him to say anything else than the truth.

"You are still with this." He looked at him and let a humorless laugh escaped his mouth. "Well," He said with a shrug, "I got what I want."

"That was why you sell the Capital to those Virginians?" He thrown his hands in the air. "We didn't even get a say on this, Alexander?" Snow melted on his fingertips, drops of water slowly drawled down on his palm. Hamilton sifted his gaze away.

 **We** could be anything, honestly. The American citizens? Georges Washington? Aaron Burr?

_Alexander Hamilton?_

"I got what I want, Burr," He repeated tiredly. "I stand for it, and I fight for it, what is wrong with it?" He turned his eyes up to the gray sky, white flakes drowning and the only ending that awaited them was death. "Besides, they got the Capital, but not the _capital_ , we still won, am I right?"

"That's not the problem!" He exclaimed with a sheer force and grabbed his shoulders. He seemed surprise by the thinness of it, therefore lower its force. He looked despaired. "This is too good of a compromise that shouldn't been achieved without any sacrifice. Nobody knows what happened, Alexander," the voice sounded almost like a plea. "I need to know—"

He cut him short with a tilt of his head, curiously but exhaustedly exhaled, "The result is at its best, Burr, we got the banks, they got the Capital, and we are all happy with it. No everyone is lucky like General Mercer, dying can't leave legacy, only obliterated memories, Sir."

He couldn't help but realized with how much ease and familiarity he add 'sir' in the end of the phase, almost like an knowing inside joke for them. Nobody laughed, though.

"We were fighting for revolution, for independence, and we won," He continued and shouldered the electrifying tension between them. "we will need the banks to have an centralized economy in this united nation, Burr. You just need eyes to see that this nation is in need of financial stability."

He shakes a little from those hands pressing against his shoulders with more pressure, like the responsibility he did taken on since he arrived in this chaotic city, with pride, no less.

"I need to negotiate with the South, mind you, they are not the easiest clients."

"This nation does not need your impulses, Alexander. This should be discussed by the Excellency and the whole—"

"He trusts me."

"Doesn't mean the people trusts you."

"Well, hate the sin," Hamilton looked into the brown abyss, the snow flowing on his lashes so he rubbed them away like tears. "love the sinner."

This was the last time they had an conversation without standing on the opposite sides, fighting for what seemed to be the right thing to protect. Burr _stopped_ waiting and Hamilton _started_ waiting.

This was when everything clenched.

"Hold your nose and close your eyes, then."

He pointed America for showing him how many people were just like him, living in thick and impossible blurred mirage, yet Hamilton was sure Burr knew.

•••

"Your Excellency." Hamilton greeted politely. "You called."

"Hamilton." Georges Washington replied with the same tone and gravity. "Sit down."

His eyes widened in surprise for a moment and shake his head with a brutal spin. Embarrassed, he mutely shake his head again. He spoke up when Washington stopped him.

"Sit down, secretary Hamilton, this is an order."

Knowing full well that wasn't one, he let out a sign and reluctantly sat down on the wooden seat in front of the General.

This was a man who lived through wars and death, Hamilton remembered himself, through betrayal and famished days, this was a man who killed souls and saved ones, he considered himself lucky enough to be the latter. Washington's hands looked firm and strong, his board shoulders took his military uniform with a grace he can't denied nor described.

The bones in his General's hands were from a soldier, and he couldn't help but thought how he can choked him to death with just a single grip on his neck. _Quick and painless,_ he assumed.

"So, Hamilton," he pressed his hands on his chin and began with a more softer voice that should be used in order to command, "How about the draft of Neutrality? No need to stress, you still have three more weeks before the deadline. I personally am worried about your—"

"I am grateful of your concern, your Excellency." Hamilton unconsciously cut his words, but it was no returning to the past. "In all honesty, sir, I have achieved the drafting two days earlier."

The General rose an elegant eyebrow at this statement.

"I haven't known a man capable of such speed." His tone was light, and made Hamilton wondered if this wasn't just of joke in his Excellency's twist humor. "You will be in need of a break."

And this, as Hamilton protested fiercely, recognized this as the voice of a real command, like a judge who decided its death sentence.

"But sir—"

"Just two days, colonel Hamilton." His Army rank title was being brought out by surprise as Washington's hands posed flat on the big wooden table, a sign of greatest authority and supreme power on their subordinates.

Sometimes he wondered if they were more than just those commands and orders, more than consultants. Because wise was a word too much for him, because he choose to ignore the affections and more often, paternal shadows in his General, ignored and blocked and ran away from anything that prevented him to be wise.

But he had to admit, even to the depth of their exchanged letters and most disputes, that Georges Washington was a friend, a secret keeper, an independent figure that was dependent of him, more consciously than not. A partnership they were entwined with, dependably kept by two men, unable to say it out loud. A warmth filled up the space that should disappeared years and years ago.

_Maybe—_

He balled his fists in order to shut up for the first time, and like a child, he acquiesced with a gruffly sign.

_This is what feels like to have a father._

"You have my will, your Excellency." He said to the man he can never refuse to, because he should to refuse a break because he didn't need one, will never need one. Because Alexander Hamilton wasn't in need of anything but to write and write until seconds were changed to words and syllables and won't stop until minutes turned to letters and spilled ink.

Because he knew nothing more than sitting on that desk, smooth papers underneath his shaky hands, candle on his side, and writing until he ran out of time.

Until his lungs were nothing but inked breaths, until his eyes were everything but that yellow sky, until his heart was filled with phrases and sentences, breathless and worthlessly.

Washington nodded in satisfaction while Hamilton nodded to retreat home.

But oh—

_Home?_

  
•••

He met Jefferson when he was out of Washington's office.

As he wondered whenever or not to greet him or just ignore him, Jefferson was the first to speak out, and Hamilton let out another sign that added to his collection that morning.

"Mister Jefferson ." Hamilton didn't manage to get off that tiredness out this word. "What can I do?"

"Alexander," His fake sweetness made him want to throw up as he continued. "Did something good happened? Glad to see you smile." He drawled smugly, a hint of happiness in his voice.

"Sure, you are glad to hear that I get a two days break, sir."

"Of course, Alexander." He smiled a little bit too long before turning back to his usual stance. "Of course."

He walked past him as Jefferson whispered to his ear, slowly and clear hatred in his tone. There's no hiding in it.

Hamilton counted his breath until he realized that none came out. He stepped away from him, from everyone, from this far too stretched world that he once thought to understand.

Jefferson's figure disappeared until a dark point far from the horizon was the only thing that prove he came. Nothing will prove he said those words, though.

"When we will see each other again, I will let you remember what it felt like back to that room. Shame and guilt and powerless, aren't you _helpless_ , Alexander?"

He ran to home— _home?_ And finally be able to throw out. He didn't know what what he throw, he didn't eat for a day.

Maybe it was _words_ , he thought as he smiled to Eliza how came from the second floor, confessed about how beautiful she was today. _Like a brother_ , his mind screamed as he kissed her forehead, warm and welcoming.

It was three days before that Washington resigned and Thomas Jefferson became out of control.

•••

So as he recalled and savored and frowned and remembered those moments, the sound of piercing wind and chipping birds was the last thing he heard when Hamilton realized his hollowed chest and his hand toward the sky, a beautiful sound came out of its pistol until he collapsed on the ground.

Aaron Burr's eyes were wide, he saw it. Wide like the world he couldn't saw anymore, the sky was watching him as he bleed and whined and screamed and cried and —

That yellow calm, that hurricane he calmly watched as thousands died, a mother holding his child, a father screaming his child name as he watched all this, and wrote.

He wrote down in the paper, wrote his life out, wrote out his own deliverance, his own grave. Letters and letters and words proved that he talked too much, way too much, and he was more than proud of this statement.

He regret it, though, regret that he didn't died sooner, because Philip was supposed to live and him dying would probably fulfilled his wish, that _yes, father will go and see you soon, son._

He regret for not dying sooner as he heard John's voice, and Hamilton laughed out loud on the dueling grounds, choking blood at the same time. _Yes, John, I didn't forget you, don't worry. I raise the glass for you. That shot that I raised in the sky, it was for you._

_Did you see it?_

He regret again and again while he watched Washington and he made an military greeting with his hand covered his blood. Death never parts way for people on the same path, your Excellency. He wanted to say but his mouth can't articulate a single word.

He regret and regret until Aaron Burr held his hand and as Thomas Jefferson went to his mind like a last reminder of his enemies, last reminder of his failures. But he can't swept the memories of drinking voice with Burr, yelled out their dreams while crying with laughter, he can't denied the way Jefferson say his name warmed his heart, and he can't believed that once, in another world, they were _friends_.

He kept dancing round and round with the people he recognized more than just their faces, and he watched as rain dropped on his face, the rain dropped on his mouth and he only tasted salt.

Aaron Burr still held his hand.

•••

_Angelica._

_Eliza._

_Eliza._

_**Eliza**._

They were beside his bed, both clutching his hands as they cried, the most beautiful melody that Hamilton didn't want to hear twice.

"Eliza. Betsy."

"Yes?"

"I love you, Eliza." _Like a sister._

She didn't replied.

"Angelica?"

"Yes, Alexander. I am here. Do you need any help nor—"

"Thank you." _Like a brother._

She didn't replied either.

"Burr?"

Nobody replied. But they didn't need to. 

"I have no ill-will against you. I forgave everything that happened." _Like a friend._

Silence.

"...Philip?"

He closed his eyes.

"...Laurens?"

The cries became quieter but louder in their hearts.

"... _Washington_?"

The hands that held him almost bruised him as his became whimperer.

"...where are they?" He frantically looked around, trying to find— _to reach_ — "I want to see them. I missed them so much. I want to see them and ask them to forgive me, I am so late, I am so sorry, I talk too much, I hope too much, I write too much. Everything was so much until they went before me. Why they leave me alone? I am so cold. I am so sorry. _God I am sorry I am—"_

He stopped. And everything stopped. He reached to the other side, and the rest was history. 

"Oh."

He smiled.

" _So I ran out of time_."

[New York, July 4, 1804]  
This letter, my very dear Eliza, will not be delivered to you, unless I shall first have terminated my earthly career; to begin, as I humbly hope from redeeming grace and divine mercy, a happy immortality.

_Because death was more a rest than a burden._

If it had been possible for me to have avoided the interview, my love for you and my precious children would have been alone a decisive motive. But it was not possible, without sacrifices which would have rendered me unworthy of your esteem. I need not tell you of the pangs I feel, from the idea of quitting you and exposing you to the anguish which I know you would feel. Nor could I dwell on the topic lest it should unman me.

_Because the ones who survive were the one who will take his burden. Nothing left for him anymore._

The consolations of Religion, my beloved, can alone support you; and these you have a right to enjoy. Fly to the bosom of your God and be comforted. With my last idea; I shall cherish the sweet hope of meeting you in a better world.  
Adieu best of wives and best of Women. Embrace all my darling Children for me.

_Because if Alexander Hamilton obliterated his life, then someone's be born today._

Ever yours  
A.H  
July 4. 1804  
Mrs. Hamilton

It was sunny the day of his funeral, bright and alive. _Because someone else will be born today._

•••

He wondered if there was an afterlife.

A life where nothing but dreamscape and happiness, a world that didn't exist warm and blood, where he will have all his loved ones with him, talking about their shared memories and all the stupid mistakes they made.

So when he wake up on a boat caught on fire with people screaming, he eventually got confused.

"Pardon me?" He asked a passenger after the ship was saved form the ravaged fire. "Where are we, sir?"

The man shout him an strange glance. "Young man!" He laughed. "You are probably so terrified by that fire that you lost your mind! Young man, there is more than this in your life..."

Hamilton cut his discourse, irritated. "See sir, I am no younger man." The passenger laughed more, his shoulders shaking. "Please now please tell me where we are, dear sir?"

"Young man," He lightly ignored Hamilton's frown at this nickname. "we are heading for New York."

"What?" Was all he managed to get out of his suddenly dry and suffocating mouth.

"Are you sure you are alright? Don't tell me you didn't know where you were heading before getting on this ship, Jesus." The man in front of him was now looking at him with worried eyes, and it made Hamilton sick.

_He didn't have seasickness before._

"— Please tell me which year we are, sir."

"We are in the late seventies, young man. Are you—"

He ran to the side of the ship, gripped the cords as hardly as he can until blood dripped out of them. He observed his reflection on the water.

The sun was rising and the water was shining with a blinding spark but that was not what made him dizzy.

The man on the surface of the sea was a boy no older than twenty, cerulean eyes flared with its usual fierce determination and complimented the deep sea. A typical Caribbean boy, its brown-red hair like sand.

This is Alexander Hamilton. Headed for a new land. In 1772. 

_Thirty-two years ago._


	2. In which they met

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Hamilton started to fuck things up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greek characters and Arthurian Legend references. Oh, and songs.

Aaron Burr sat there, drink in one hand, thoughts on the other.

 _"Get out of my house, Aaron."_ Was the last he heard from his uncle before he got his way out, and escaped his family's beliefs.

Being graduated at two, he had been expected, wanted, coated in a queer pride and honor, the willing of wanting doing something, something _big and in scope_ , and he now stand in the stage of choices, yet unwilling to choose.

(—Sat on wide awake empty stool, no matter figuratively nor literally.)

He folded his hands and watched as people walked away from him, folks danced and sang with a rhythm he did not learn, jazz blasted as they drawled their revolutionary song, words collided and stilled in his ears. He unfolded them, toke another sip of his drink, melody still remained in like a lullaby, whispering, loud and crippling.

 _Some talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules_  
_Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these._  
_But of all the world's great heroes, there's none that can compare.  
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to the British Grenadiers._

The cabinet was filled with a forced force, and Burr felt shifting uncomfortably in his wooden stool, feeling overwhelmed and a wrong place to step in the first place. He was no Alexander nor Hercules, not was he capable of stooping these hot blooded, and naturally soldiers.

 _Those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon ball,_  
 _Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal._  
But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears,  
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers.

He was well aware of the tensions in the colonies, whenever economically nor territorially. He just couldn't stated anything out. Nor he had any others things to add, for the sake of this unsettled colonies and for himself.

 _We are claiming this land ours, but land was never owned, thus the Britain can then gave us a false illustration of greater good._ Burr wrote down once, but burned it after a contemplative attempt to make out his mind.

He swigged another drink and in a single gulp, and looked at the clock. Besides the four walls and the drinking sounds, the only sound that connected him to reality was those words, letters, and _syllabes_.

 _Whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades,_  
 _Our leaders march with fusees, and we with hand grenades._  
We throw them from the glacis, about the enemies' ears.  
Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers.

He held his hand mid-air to ask for another drink, decided that it will be his last one. The servant came and pouring the liquid in. Burr whispered a thanks and carried the glass to lips until the door cracked open and the world stopped for a second, only _one_.

(He would gave _two_ , though.)

The child– young boy, tanned skin and the typically young curves of this man outstandingly made him a more curved and defined body than a military one. But something in him Burr was sure made him of a great man, a young one, indeed, but definitely a greater man.

Something spirited and electric about this new client in this revolutionized mess was more than just _young_ , but intelligent, and quick-witted.

His eyes were tired, dark circles married this boy in what it seemed a lifetime ago, and as the deep azure apertures encountered his, Burr didn't breathe.

( _For exactly two seconds_ , God forbid.)

Those eyes were much older, less bolder than his stance could tell. Eyes with ocean waves and hurricane inside, blue calm with so much sufferances, knowledges and stories. As they touched his, the calm transformed into something like— _horrific realization?_ — and the pretty visitor with pretty eyes quickly turned his gaze. Neither of them moved, and only the song relentlessly kept going, raging.

 _And when the siege is over, we to the town repair._  
 _The townsmen cry, "Hurrah, boys, here comes a Grenadier!_  
Here come the Grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears!  
Then sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers.

The boy took a seat, far away, five tables from him. He stumbled on his way, looking nothing less than terrified.

As he wondered if he did something to this man that he barely knew— knew that he would remember him just for those pair of eyes— the door swing open again, with more confidence and force, and the cold wind made him shook a bit, but the voices that came after were truly the _real_ disasters.

"What time is it!" The front boy in the group exclaimed, looking in the faces of everyone in the room, wanting a reaction properly, like this place was his kingdom, but a kingless one.

 _And_ he was here to conquer it.

The singing stopped and everyone turned. Even Burr landed an amused glance at the group, the tan skinned boy still in the back of his mind.

"Showtime!" The other two men behind the freckled young one, instantly flaming the atmosphere up again from the freezing silence. Burr smiled, he had always been smiling.

"Yo!" The seemingly leader of the group put his feet on an empty table, claiming his territory. "I'm John Laurens in a place to be! Hand me some more pints of Sam Adams please!" He gestured to the servant with wide and obnoxious arms as he exclaimed more. "No red one though!"

When the crowd understood the meaning, a wave of applause and cries made this room even smaller than it already appealed to be.

(With a side glance, he saw the boy with those pretty eyes stood, and went to corner until he faded out of his view.

Like a passenger, scraped with flesh and bones from the story itself.)

" _Bonjour mes amis_!" The sudden change of language made them silent while excited and confused at the same time. " _Je m'appelle Lafayette_ , the Lancelot revolutionary set!"

At the mention of the great character in the Arthurian Legend, he continued, with more force this time. "I am anything but betraying the King Arthur! My heart forever belonged for the people! Like the onarchy— how do you say?" Lafayette asked his friend and realization hit. "Ô, anarchy!"

The crowd send waves of laughter and sounds of approval as the last one stepped in. "Do not forget me!" The rows of laughter only grew.

The latter put an uncaring arm on Laurens, chanting with a rough voice. "I'm a tailor's apprentice named Hercules Mulligan!" He said proudly. "Yo I'm just like Hercules in ancient greek, searching for an Alexander to join the revolution!" He put his other arm on Lafayette, and it made them look—

The words that came to Burr's mind wasn't poetic, either brandy, but it described the situation so well that he can't let it slide.

— _young, scrappy and hungry._

"To the revolution!" The world seemed to scream it out loud, blurring his tympan. As people crowded the trio until none of them were seen from outside the circle, he saw, with a disgusting and disgraceful bliss, that he returned.

The man's eyes— violet-blue— darted around nervously and anxiously until he didn't found the subject of his danger and signed in relief as he sat down silently across the room. He was far away from the crowd, as if he hated to gain attention.

And hated to speak, for the sake of the thin line that formed his mouth and the deadly grip on the table, threatening to break under the stress.

Something about this man made this room dimmed and shined with waywardness he did not predict, and something about him that made Aaron Burr— the prodigy, the abandoned, the slave of time, _timeless character_ — stood and stepped out of his zoned space and reached out for—

_What?_

He counted his steps, as well as his breaths.

One.

 _For his goal? Political pursuits were never his goal._ (But then again, he never had any goal than trying to survive.)

Two.

_For the revolution? Rebelliousness were contempts and shall have its own ending without any interventions._

Three.

_For him? A man he barely knew? Absurd._

He didn't realize he was in front of the so said man himself until the boy stared at him—violet-blue, _sweet Jesus_ — with what little fear — confusion?— and he found himself saying, with a fake confidence, and smiled— he was always smiling.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

The members of the man in front of him seemed to lost ability to move as he squared his shoulder and lower his head. Burr's hands were covered in sweat, nearly deciding to run away from here— anywhere but here.

He heard a soft, young and shaped voice, but a melodic one. A knowing one. And a proud one.

( _Pride goeth before destruction and an haughty spirit before a fall._ He once read on the Bible.)

"You have wait me, don't you, Aaron Burr, sir?"

His name had been popularized, he wondered. "Pardon me?"

"Nothing, sir." He said, though this _should_ have been anything written and stated in that sentence, like a death penalty. "That would be nice, if you asked me," The sudden change of subject wasn't endearing, to say the least. The music came back and the soldiers began to sing, to finish the one they have long started.

 _Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health of those_  
 _Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the loupèd clothes._  
May they and their commanders live happy all their years.  
With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers.

"May I request Sam Adams, sir?"

•••

The conversation was unlikely a conversation. They shared greetings and salutations, but then the stranger seemed to mind his own business and didn't opened his mouth again.

(If you ignore that countless times where he reopened his mouth and close it again and again, that's it.)

"Shall I have the right to know who am I sharing the pleasant evening, mister...?" Burr felt himself ask again, and furiously pray that he would talk less. Talk less. _Talk less._

The man in front of him shrugged, his queue shifted against his shoulder. "We will be no meeting again. Part ways and crossing paths, thus no need to mention my ungracious name, sir. "

"Let me offer you some advice, young man."

"Of course, I have the honor, sir." These amusing and knowing— like he always knew what will happen next— pupils made him uncomfortable yet curiously attached to them. _Like a Tom cat,_ he thought without thinking.

"Talk more, my dear unknown friend."

At this, the man actually arched an eyebrow at the statement. A surge of satisfaction overwhelmed and led him to continue. "As I said, no pleasant evening can be achieved without some pleasant talk, am I right?"

The stranger bit his bottom lip and repressed himself a bust. _Smile more._ He managed to let out a little ringing laugh—like a melody—and it took a moment to stop him from crying out _and smile more._

"I would agree, sir." He returned the favor. "Please enjoy my plenty questions then, pay no mind."

"With pleasure."

"Those group of young men from earlier on, aren't they incredible?" He asked with fond eyes, and can be strangely considered a motherly tone.

"Oh?" Burr responded, curiosity picked. "Have you seen them? How so?"

"I had a view about their monologues, dear sir." He smiled— _smile more_ , he wanted to say. "I have always appreciated energetic and elementary spirits like no one." He said.

"I would like to have dialogues with those young souls," the stranger paused and added, "but it seemed it's unfortunate that they are gone from this carriage."

"Mister, for all due respect, yourself seemed no older than in your twenties." His cerulean eyes widened just a bit, but it was quickly camouflaged under thick lashes. "Besides—"

"Yo! Isn't this Aaron Burr, sir!" A voice came from his back. He signed before finishing his sentence. It's John Laurens.

"...They shall be here, I assumed." He titled his head toward Laurens, a genuine smile on his lips when he saw the man in front him can't hid his overly widened irises.

His smile decreased when the man stood, a soldier stance, he noted, and likely prepared to throw himself on the wall and die.

"Yo!" Lafayette and Mulligan joined the party as their drunk forms came closer to Burr, encasing him.  
"Drop some verses Burr! You are the only one here who didn't—" Lafayette stopped and noticed the smaller man behind him. "Who are you?"

"Who is this kid? I have never see him around!" Mulligan whispered to Burr as he shook his head and smiled politely and considerate his response— _smile more—_ "I have no idea, sir."

"Hi!" Laurens was already heading for the new comer, probably too affected by the alcohol to really noticed the flinch and a slight shake from the man when he put an arm across his shoulder. "I'm John Laurens! Wanna say your verses?"

Burr thought the boy was going to run, nor at least step out from the light embrace. He thought that maybe he will answer and learn more from this reserved and mysterious stranger. He thought anything but _nothing like this_.

The man's eyes are filled with a deep wistfulness and a abyss-like fear. Something like dolefully pained and his sorrow made him look haggard and woebegone. The widely round pupils might be bleeding from its overly emotional state he was in. Sweat poured down from its forehead and he gripped Laurens's uniform as he shuttered something that Burr didn't heard.

His breathes were hitched and uncontrollable, the singing stopped and some groaned in annoyance and replied fiercely that _not another poor man from a break from its poor innocent love! It's the firth this week, for God's sake!_

Tears are naked and desolated. They showed the biggest fear and insecurity and reflected them like a glass and wrote down like plain pamphlets. Tears were humiliating and dangerous, they might bring pity or dishonorable embarrassment and either of them were good enough to give a try. Tears were for the languorous weak and shall not be passed otherwise.

But as the man started sweating and crying in Laurens's arms and muttering nonsense— _so he talked a lot actually_ —Burr didn't sensed pity, either embarrassed. He sensed confusion on Laurens, worry from Lafayette and curiosity from Mulligan.

(And _he_ felt pure heartbreak, shattered pieces and illuminated souls dancing around him whispering _he is so much more than just with a pretty eyes and pretty words._ )

This man was rage, a disastrous storm, calmly beginning to ravage them one by one, bones by bones. Ligaments by ligaments. He won't stop until he buried himself in its own grave.

As the man lifted his head and saw everyone looked at him, he flushed and turned scarlet red, in which hid the streaks of tears. He quickly stepped away and turned to Burr, not looking at him in the eyes.

"Sir, I am afraid t-that," his hiccups didn't ceased. "This meeting shall be cancelled due to my situation, yo-u see..."

"Of course," Burr couldn't stop the disappointment hit him like waves. "Will I have the honor to know your title, mister?" He can't help but ask. Talk less. _Talk less._

"Until next time, Aaron Burr, sir." He didn't look back when he slammed the door and Burr shivered from the sudden cold and dry air. And he counted his breath.

_Until next time._

•••

"Say, what the kid told you John?" Lafayette asked with a frown and Mulligan nodded in agreement, curiosity flogged in the room as everyone waiting for his answer. Even Burr was listening carefully, delicately made his face blank. _Wait for it and we shall see._

Laurens shook his head incredibly, still shocked and stunned. His left shoulder was soaked with tears, outstanding and wanting to prove that it was not a dream nor illusion. He rubbed his neck uncomfortably, flushed.

"He must have mistaken me for some other good sir..." He whispered, and now more to himself. "I didn't want to provoke him or anything..."

Lafayette pat his shoulder, choosing the right one. "John, none of this is your fault. We don't even know if this boy was sane or not." Burr frowned at these words. "Now, tell us, what did he say?"

Laurens took Lafayette's comforting hands and squeezed it. He paused a moment before admitting those mistakes, sentences that should be a mistake.

"He said he was sorry..." He stated with certainty. "And then... something about death and wars?" He looked pensive. As people waited— _wait for it and we shall see—_ Laurens frapped his head with his hand with a little sound of realization.

He blushed as he smiled shyly to the crowd and said with uncertainty.

"He said that he will be South Carolina for me or something like that?" He laughed. "Man, this guy is strange, Laf."

People nodded in harmony and even Burr couldn't help but agreeing to the statement. As the music restarted and singing began, and revolutionary soldiers danced on the wooden floor, Burr had his last words flooded in his mind, reappeared again and again as he tried to ignore them.

_Until next time._

Laurens went on and tapped his shoulder, "Hey! Burr, is it?" Mulligan and Lafayette were on his side. "Wanna discover who it is?" They laughed. "You know, the guy."

"No, sir. I am afraid that it will be a next time." He smiled. He was always smiling. 

( _Wait for it and we shall see,_

 _until next time._ )


	3. In which he trusted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hamilton got a new name, Burr got a new job, and Washingdad will get more screentime I promise.

  
Flames died and revived with powerful waves, ascending to ships and boats, frapping the sea like wireless papers, finding solace in its fire. Dried leaves— _a thousands carriages of tea_ — swirled and burned fiercely, as if God itself abated its wrath on this new land. Boston and their people agonizing under the cask of Zeus.

Blue wrath acted like blessing on the sea, wrote an end destined to be a dark comedy under Shakespeare's pen, sailor and civilians lied on the ground, a deathless sacrifice to the God.

To do what is right and just is more acceptable to the Lord than sacrifice. There's were people screaming out loud. Revolution was coming. Blood shed, and eyes looking with faith filled with a broken promise. The immortal created war, and mortals created disputes. The circumstances were the same.

Except that this time, no hero will intercept. Only Men. The mortal ones.

And this time, shall every races will be on the same ground. Laurens wrote down on that scribbled yellowed paper, light candle burned the corner of the newspaper, erasing the inked typing—tea— as Laurens smiled at the words printed on the folded letters.

— _Party in Boston harbor: British troops sent to Massachusetts._

He chuckled. A party indeed. A long one.

(A place where sufferings were considered bravery and one where writings will be the only prove that it had exist, between past and present, the only thing that last were _words_.)

Laurens tugged his queue and let his hair set on his shoulders. He shook his head once, before blowing the candle. Its flame convulsed, dimmed, and acted his own bereavement. He rubbed his left, sour shoulder from bending over the desk and wrote until the night turned its full moon.

He stopped as he looked over as the place he did massaged himself with, there was no sweat, no tears, and no words. He still remembered, that suspicious lie he did said and the buried truth he didn't slipped, wouldn't spluttered.

He was a good friend, a honest one, to say the least. He wouldn't unman himself from anything else, but sometimes verities were best left questioned and left in the oceanfront.

_"John, I am so sorry..." That man's eyes were crazy, lucid, and too much—grief— too much words to unfolded them and settled on a table full of expressions— too much for Laurens, probably too much for him too. He watched, with wide eyes as the man's hiccups stayed when he spoke again._

_"I am so sorry... John... I-I will redefined your legacy... I will help you, I will help Laf, I will help Hercules... I-I will change and e-everything will be fine... John..." He looked up with from his shoulder and frapped him with those sincere—broken and wholly dedication to him._

_He didn't even have time to ask why he knew their names—hell, even spelled Laf—but he was cut by another vomit of words and sentences that he did his best to understand._

_"You won't—y-you won't — you won't fucking go to South Carolina, I will—I will do it— really will. Believe me..." His mouth was stuttering, trembling and he was smiling wild, uncontrollably. Laurens got a shiver under the back of his neck._

_"I will make things better, y-you guys can watch me from behind," His hair were dampened from sweat, eyes darted around insanely, chest fell and rose quickly—too quickly—tears unconsciously spilled out with a conviction that they weren't noticed._

_"Because this time I will protect you all..." He smiled, softly this time, whispering and murmuring then about something he can't heard, even from the closeness of their bodies. He caught the words 'Banks', 'Wars' and—_

_**Eliza?** _

_"...Sir?" Laurens began, and before he had time to realize his mistake, the man looked up with sudden awareness, he looked around, and pulled away. He repressed the will of laughing gently—damn, this man just sputtered three paragraphs of nonsense (nonsense?) without noticing that he was being observed—and shook his shoulders._

_"Are you alright, man?" The words formed on his lips but didn't had time to say it out loud until the stranger back away and just like that, gone. Like he did came._

_He remembered he did land a glance on his empty arms after the disappearance of the man, it was warm. It felt cold on his right shoulder, the tears won't dried._

_So when he was being asked for the details, he lied. He hid under the dankness of his craved form, he hid the familiar names under a pilled of laughs, and he lied about the man itself. He wasn't strange._

_He was insane._

When the darkness surrounded him and its brain lied down as the lies he did told once, he heard silent smothered bird's chirps and slowed wind blew down its fenestella.

He wished he could hear troops and fighters howled shrieks under the faltered British ships, he wished he could command a battalion full of obsidian and chalky musketeers, he wished and hoped and prayed as he fell asleep in a dreamless, torpidly rest.

•••

"Laf! Hercules!"

He frantically waved his hands to get their attention as the mass gathered over the small footstool, everyone standing curiously around it.

The sun was high in the sky, mid day was higher. They were supposed to encountered here, but he didn't anticipated that much crowd.

"Monsieur John!" Lafayette grinned and shouted with thickly accented English when Mulligan approached from behind him, "Johnnie!"

He laughed and shoved him friendly, "Ya know it's not an name, Herc! How about I call you Mules, sir?" He arched his back to avoid Mulligan's punch as Lafayette was resumed to be a broken mess of laughter on the ground.

"Aw, Johnie!" The Frenchman spoke between two breathless snorts, "Don't be such a joke—jolted? Ah!" He added with a self-satisfied laugh, "Jerk to our friend..."

Laurens had to back a chortle to not discourage his comrade, with an content sigh, he stretched his hand out to Mulligan with a joking manner. He took his hand and kissed it, turning back to look at Mulligan with sparkling eyes.

"My apologies, mister Hercules," He ignored Mulligan who covered his other hand to contain his flustered features as he continued with a smirk, "My behavior and manner are such inexcusable seemliness, such amoral actions,"

"will you please have the honor to forgive me, dear sir? I have knowledge that—"

"Enough, John!" Mulligan chuckled and fist bumped him on the shoulder, "Ya know that I hate those 'gentlemen' things that I will never learn!" He quoted with his fingers as he huffed.

"We know, Herc," interfered Lafayette, "Johnie is a sophisticated man with a sophisticated language, _et moi je suis un homme sophistiqué, mais dans un autre sens!_ " He winked at them, while knowing full well they can't define a single word of his native tongue.

They laughed together nonetheless, the voices formed a harmony in a choral. Prose and poems stroked him with great power as he quickly withdrew some verses as they wholeheartedly commented on them. Laurens watched with fond eyes his friends, smiling stupidly and happily, but couldn't get overwhelmed by the feeling that something was missing.

Lafayette was a natural force, swirled in the scatter wind, its loyal and clement temperament made him a brilliant man, tactical soldier. He shone with his wielding épée, shone with warmhearted sincerity, shone brightly and unrestrictedly. When they were fighting in troubled waters, this man was crossing the ocean, willingly to ran into a intercontinental abyss.

(Sunrise. Chasing and running the moon. He's was too early and too late all the same.)

Mulligan was an alchemist. He transformed gems into vitals, some kind of mindless magic. He knew where to polish, where to dig, where to create. He can broke them, perfected them, or he can shaped them as his wish. A charcoal skin, porcelain Soul.  
Unalloyed.  
Undiluted.  
Unclouded.

 _Unmingled_.

Together they formed the dusk, gloomy but full story, shady but full of devotedness, twilight but full of stars. Together they were full, full of benevolence, bravery and spirits. But something was missing, there's no doubt in it.

(He once read, under the candle-less moonlight,

 _The moon hid behind stars for the solemn reason that the stars were bright enough to blind the Majesty's eyes._ )

"Well, isn't this Aaron Burr, sir!" Lafayette's voice dragged him to reality as he grabbed them by the arms to join the said man. Laurens nearly burst out laughing at the rhythmic and repeated sentence when he gave a half-hearted salute to Burr.

His hand froze in the mid-air.

He never particularly liked Burr, for his attire to his altitude, either did Lafayette or Mulligan. He was mildly surprised by Lafayette exclaims. And now he understood.

Beside Burr, a shorter man stood with a military stance no less, blue eyes flashing with intellect. He can almost see the gears and machinery behind those crystal clear irises. Those swollen and black circles still embraced his face— _and oh._

_Now he understood._

"Sirs." Burr smiled and responded. "What a pleasure."

"Of course!" Lafayette shook hand with him as he picked his glance at the man beside him instead. "And this time, shall I have the trust to know sir's name?"

The man stared in silence and balled his fist hard enough to see through the veins and whites knuckles. They didn't met eyes during the exchange, as if he was avoiding him. Burr added, with somewhat an great interest in his tone, "Sir, I haven't the time to ask, too."

Even Mulligan looked up at the man, waiting for an satisfactory answer.

"I haven't anticipated such demanding for my self-indulgent name." He chuckled with a nervous manner as the four pair of eyes set on him. "See, misters, I am a honest man. I have made an promise at that night fall, my name is at your disposition. But—"

"Goddamnit, just drop it, man!" Mulligan groaned. "We are not hear you to babble those verses now! We are here for a show!"

Laurens wanted to apologize, he understood meanings behind those, some men prefer to keep their Christian name safe in their grave, for explicitly personal nor public reasons. After all, he didn't know this man enough to judge or to expect anything from him.

But as the boy's features smoothed over the words, and softly whispered his name, Laurens suspected that he really didn't know anything about this man.

"Philip." He breathed out with a dry mouth. "My name is Philip Hamilton."

Mulligan laughed out loud and tapped the– _finally–named_ –man on the back before anyone could stop him. "See! That wasn't difficult!"

"It wasn't, sir," He looked at Mulligan with adoration. "Philip was a hero." The words seemed to tremble and collide to force them into a sentence as he continued, "They named me after him."

"I haven't heard those!" Lafayette cried out. "Wasn't this some legend here?" Laurens and Mulligan shook heads while Burr seemed focused on everything but on Lafayette's sentence.

The m— Hamilton paused for a second and added with a voice of recognition and imposed a trust that seemed already established. "He was expunged by history because his Father was misbegotten and misbehaving, but Philip," he repeated, like a child— _like a father_ —

"Philip was one of the greatest hero in history. A wonderful poet." Hamilton's voice shattered in the last syllable and Laurens was sure, certain of the truthfulness and veracity of this declaration, because voice didn't lied as it dashed, demolished, destroyed and wrecked in this statement—

Laurens had two choices, trust or mistrust.

(That was the easiest decision he ever made in his life.)

As they let the words sank in and out, the world grew quieter. From the distance, Laurens saw a man standing on the podium, shouting silence and cleared his thorax, clearly prepared for a long hour speech about whatever it was.

Lafayette didn't tell him and Mulligan what it was about, did he—

"Hear ye! Hear ye! My name is Samuel Seabury!" He already felt all attention turned to him as Seabury held himself prouder, "And I present Free thoughts on the Proceedings of the Continental Congress!"

The speech went on, and Laurens put his palms on his face, and took a deep breath. He whispered to Lafayette, more tried than angry, "What is this, Laf? It's some stupid joke, right?"

"Shhh..."Lafayette shushed him and pat his back amicably. "It's always amusing to know what Loyalists would think, no?" He winked playfully. "You guys' expressions _sont les meilleurs_ , though."

"Oh my god, tear this dude apart!" Muffled Mulligan, arms crossed. Lafayette gave a knowing glance at Laurens as he let out a soft chuckle.

"Besides—" The frenchman slid to Hamilton and Burr who were listening attentively to the declamation, "Things are just interesting now, right am I?"

Laurens wanted to correct his friend's grammar, but he swallowed it and turned his gaze to the two in front of him rather than listening to some incompetent stump.

"Yeah..." He said instead, "Things are interesting."

•••

" _Vous aviez l'air d'un petit lion, monsieur Hamilton._ "

After two hours of waiting and waisted time, whistles or deprecation, all had disappeared under the setting sun, only dust and five men staying for inexplicable and unnamed reasons, until Lafayette's burst. Laurens still didn't understand a bit except that he was addressing to the shorter man beside Burr.

"Why so, _monsieur Lafayette?_ " Hamilton asked. Laurens saw Burr arched an eyebrow. Mulligan shoved Lafayette teasingly, Laurens was more shock than anything. It rare someone could understand, more so to speak the artistically twist syllables.

But then again, his complexion betrayed that he may be born elsewhere.

"Oh! You know French?" Lafayette looked actually embarrassed by this fact more than anything. Finally someone could drag his pride down for speaking another Heaven knows tongue. "Well it wasn't some accusation, sir," he laughed nervously, " _c'est juste que quand vous vous mettez à bouder, vous avez un air d'un petit lion—_ "

Lafayette gestured with his hands and puffed his cheeks, " _Vous voyez—_ "

Hamilton interrupted him by a laugh—uncontrollable and sincere— and Laurens was sure nobody would mind.

This man seemed so discrete and quiet, but he can see sometimes by his impulses, his curled fingers each time Hamilton stopped himself—and that night— that he was just restraining himself from something—something unknown, unrevealed, unspecified, unidentifiable—

 _Nameless_.

"Oh, sirs, pay no mind," Hamilton whipped his tears and took a breath, "...It makes me remember of another...correspondence," he didn't look at Lafayette, but his eyes melt under the golden light as fondness overwhelmed him, "he was prompting the same thing as you, sir."

— _He called him Laf, that night._

"Hamilton, sir," Laurens said before his own mind would say no to this, "Herc, Laf and I will go tavern, will you have the honor to gave a visit?" The formulation was the same as he was with Mulligan, but his hands were sweaty and he couldn't bear to look anywhere but at the ground.

"Oh!" Realization hit and he blushed, "Of course, it's the same for you too, Burr, sir."

Burr smiled at the mention of his name, "I would rather decline, I already have plans, unfortunately." He made a polite bow and tapped Hamilton's shoulder, "Philip—I see you on the other side."

Hamilton looked between something between gladness and wretchedness as he softly responded, "Of course."

He walked away for a light sound against the rocky road, leaving them behind.

"So?" Mulligan asked, and even Laurens hadn't spoke to them about this outcome, they insinuated their approval and excitement to him already. Lafayette peeked out from behind, looking eager as bounced out behind Mulligan.

" _Oui oui! Plus qu'il a des personnes, plus la fête va être excellente! Ça va être la dernière fois que tout le monde ici va être présent avant que le chaos commence!_ " Laurens can almost see Lafayette's eyes glowed, glinted, glimmered and twinkled all in one second.

" _Vous avez conscience, oui?_ " He tilted his head, " _La guerre a débuté._ "

" _Bien sûr._ " Hamilton snapped back, taken aback. " _J'en ai bien conscience._ "

" _Alors_?"

" _Oui_?"

"Will you come?" Lafayette's voice was grave, and it suddenly meant more than just an invitation.

There was silence. And then there was Hamilton.

"My apologies, sirs, I am afraid I have to repudiated. The proposal is appreciate," he smiled, "but I have so much work to do."

Hamilton didn't look at either of them when he walk away.

" _Je vous vois dans l'autre côté du chaos._ " He rose a finger in the sky, and they can only see his back when he turned the corner and then he's a goner.

•••

" _A Full Vindication of the Measures of Congress_ " was later published by an anonymous writer commenting on Seabury's and farmers requested nonsense.

_I caution you, again and again, to beware of the men who advise you to forsake the plain path, marked out for you by the congress. They only mean to deceive and betray you. Our representatives in general assembly cannot take any wiser or better course to settle our differences, than our representatives in the continental congress have taken._

Laurens can't help but nodded at the newspaper stupidly, as if it was a person.

_If you join with the rest of America in the same common measure, you will be sure to preserve your liberties inviolate; but if you separate from them, and seek for redress alone, and unseconded, you will certainly fall a prey to your enemies, and repent your folly as long as you live._

He put one of his curly strands behind his ear as he finished the letter. He didn't want to miss a word.

_May God give you wisdom to see what is your true interest, and inspire you with becoming zeal for the cause of virtue and mankind._

He inhaled deeply. It was a satisfactory read, but things were never satisfactory when it came on the battle fields. So he closed the news, tried to sleep, and hoped he will be satisfied when tomorrow he will meet the General to discuss further investments and the lack of funds.

_A friend of America._

•••

When Mulligan told them about how he and Hamilton stole those British cannons, how Hamilton was seemingly familiar with functionality and roles, how his ability as a soldier, as a commander—how he didn't know he was a commander in chief— and how he pat him on the shoulder and told him good job, Laurens had his own recognizance to the man.

(The choice was easy, too easy and it shouldn't be.)

•••

In 1775, " _The Farmer Refuted_ " got its own place on the journal. Samuel Seabury never replied to its accusation.

Laurens still laughed everytime he thought about it.

•••

When he arrived on the warfare fields, Lafayette and Mulligan were they waiting to greet him. As they discussed more about the needs of the Army and salary's issues initially created by the Congress, they moved in the tent, and surrounded the single map of the table.

"We are outgunned." Laurens whispered, he couldn't let himself scream it out.

"Outmanned." Lafayette agreed as he observed thoughtfully the map, "Outnumbered."

" _Outplanned_ ," added Mulligan reluctantly as if admitted it would cost more than it already was.

The room was silent from great comprehension of the situation and this was when honesty was welcome by deaths and bloodshed. Because even if they can die like martyrs, they still couldn't serve for a cause that it's now supposedly out of their reach.

Laurens gritted his teeths and bit his lips until blood drawn out to calm his nerves, and every cellular every breaths every gears in his brain were chanting, screaming, _wanting_ —

Rise up—rise up. Rise.

 _Up_.

The loud shouting out of the tent was actually loud enough to break his track of mind, and for what it seemed, others as well. Everyone got out from their tents, a thousand soldiers and officers looked up from the man who had been a model, a unspoken legend—

"Here comes the General!" A man shouted again, leading to a round of cheers and respectful bows.

George Washington stand tall and steady. Its uniform impeccably well adjusted, buttons set into two lines of courses— _unlike troops, unlike fields_ — shifted slightly as he held a hand to require their silence.

"And his right hand man!" The General practically roared out like a command to follow. Laurens followed everyone's glances to find out Burr and Hamilton beside Washington.

Well, things were interesting after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!!!! Thank you so so much so so much like so mc u H for reviewing, kudos and reading!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I squeal everytime I get a comment 
> 
> Sorry for the historical inaccuracies, sometimes I wonder why I do a three hours research and then just 'plot needs to go on so' *sobs* 
> 
> And since I am a native speaker, the French is accurate, don't worry. 
> 
> THANK YOU AGAIN FOR READDDING *cries*


	4. In which he followed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> !!1! I told you that Washingdad is getting screentime!!! Son and dad's moment because of course please I live for this. 
> 
> Setting things down and also getting things started.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to write about the duel Laurens-Lee but then I remember that oh, some events happened before so sorryryry 
> 
> (It's 1 AM *sobs* I will check for mistakes tomorrow morning. Sorry for any mistakes, I have quite a block this week aaaAAAAA)

The man in front of him was smiling.

Malicious, tactically measured, every centimeters of parceled skin were covered by a fine mask of loyalty, fidelity, and respect. The man perfectly and calmly ignored the shielding swords and the already defeated troops and screams of grief.

Their brown eyes shifted with a calculated glance around the tent, examined every details of the scene in front of him. Washington frowned, he had always hate hemming and hawing. The man turned, and his eyes seemed to smile.

Somehow, the man didn't speak. The hogan flowed with the electric silence, while Washington didn't have time to waist nor any time for the subject of hand, he only sighed to let out a bit of his frustration added to the tensioning air.

The British took Brooklyn, the southwestern land.

Soldiers were angered and frustrated, but British officials were trained to kill. We were digging graves while surrounded by faithfulness and the hope for a nation's born. Washington was wearing the uniform of the people, flag rose up high, while soldiers hang up dead.

As they finally tried to put a stop in the bloody massacre when they were down the Battery and stole their cannons, they ran to Harlem, towards to aids. They are in a desperate situation, and Washington truly had no time for any vagary of nonsense.

"Who are you?" He asked tiredly.

"Aaron Burr, sir." The man replied politely and no with small amount of furor. "Permission to state my case?" Burr requested eagerly, though it was camouflaged by the hand on his heart, a sign of honor, apparently.

And Washington thought, _Ah, there it is._

"As you were..." He drawled but did not continue. He had so many issues to work on— _god he need assistance_ —

"Sir, I was a captain under General Montgomery, " he stated and unconsciously cut Washington's train of thoughts, "until he caught a bullet in the neck in Quebec..." he quickly changed subject when he saw the general's indifferent face, "and well, in summary:"

"I have the will to announce myself worthy of assistance." At this, Washington folded his hands and considered seriously. He didn't hate ambitious men, but somehow the aura in this man was mysterious, almost abominable.

 _Transcendental_.

Burr then added hastily, "I revered and amazed by your fire on the British from a distance, sir."

But he did hate lackey-like paroles. He managed to respond, "Huh."

"I have many questioned requests and suggestions." Burr tired again to get more reactions, "On the subject matter about how to fight until of fleeting west..."

"Yes?" His eyes were still on the papers, and he can't bring himself to stop working while listening to Burr, it's not worth it.

"Well—" Burr only can spouted out a word when Hamilton came in unexpectedly. Of course he didn't knock before distributing.

"Your Excellency." Hamilton's voice was full of great respect and nothing in his features betrayed him, because he had nothing to hid. Or to lose, it seemed.

"You asked to see me." The excitement was no doubt, it's so apparent that Burr grimaced a little. The daggers in Burr's eyes were difficult to ignore.

"Hamilton." His voice smoothed a bit as he sank in his chair, "Come in, have you met Burr?"

"Yes, sir, we keep meeting." Both of them cried, one with fond exasperation, another with rather a somber tone. The mixed voices made them startled, and when their eyes touched, they had smiled despite everything.

Washington observed intently, and choose not to comment on this idiosyncratic and unaccustomed friendship.

"As I was saying sir, " Burr coughed sarcastically, "I look forward to seeing your strategy play out—"

"Burr?"

"Sir?" He blinked once. And twice.

"Close the door on your way out."

He saw Burr's jaw clenched and unclenched— _so even the most exceptional friendship can't defeat covetousness and jealousy_ — his gaze wondered on Hamilton and then turned to Washington.

He didn't say a word when he ragged a hand on the side of the tent, and get out.

Washington didn't waisted another second and watched Hamilton, scrutinizing, pruning and nearly meddlesome eyes, stance of martyrs. Too proud. Too zealous. Too thirsty. Too aggressive. Too energetic. Too soaring. Too vaulting.

Too _desirous_ —

"Have I done something wrong, your Excellency?" He tilted his head a bit curiously—and despite the enraged situation and the battle on the other side—the general let out a half-heart smile and shook his head slowly.

_Every defaults a right hand man should possess._

"In the contrary, colonel Hamilton."

•••

— _1776_

"Close the door on your way out."

He saw Burr's jaw clenched and unclenched— _so even the most exceptional friendship can't defeat covetousness and jealousy_ — his gaze full of daggers wondered on Hamilton and then smoothly disappeared when turned to Washington.  
  
Burr made a small shrug, tried to act generous and except to show acceptance, but all he managed to do was a tensed, compromising and embarrassed image to the both of them. He pivoted his heels and his hands reached to the quality of the tent until Hamilton spoke up.

His voice was damped in trouble waters. Solicitous.

"Your Excellency, I would dare to declare the relevance and the usefulness of colonel Burr." Hamilton looked so nervous when he reached Burr's hand and held him in place. Burr hardly covered his expression. He exhibited his surprise as much as Washington did.

"Oh?"

"You see, your Excellency, mister Burr has a vast knowledge on attack plan and fields," Hamilton hurled forward as he got the attention, "I can guarantee his position will bring only benefits." He put his hand out of Burr's and waited— _for what?_

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they shall be satisfied. That's when Washington realized Hamilton wasn't made for battle, wasn't ambiguous nor ambitious enough. Too soft. Too overindulgent. Too commiserative.

"Burr?"

"Sir?"

"Close the door." Assistances will wither succeed on number nor quality. _Or both._

Burr looked at Hamilton with incredulous eyes, but daggers had long since disappeared on the nine cloud's sky. Hamilton didn't look back.

_Every quality that a right hand man should possess._

"Issues are getting off hand, colonels."

•••

They indeed retreat west to avoid further damage, and colonel Burr agreed on that matter with Hamilton, the chief of staff.

Future proved its validation.

•••

 _General Washington wasn't mere mortal like us_ , the rumor that happened to be circulating on champs to champs were hilarious, but he didn't bother to correct it.

He had long since knew that rumors can't be healed by cutting it short. Revolution was the same.

"Colonel Hamilton. Colonel Burr." He had asked, one day, when they were discussing about the lack of funds and cannons. Hamilton had a way of thinking that was far too much, but enough to write them down and create a fuss.

Hamilton was a great strategist, too great actually. Washington can bet that he knew every counterattack, the number of cannons the red coasts processed, the number of soldiers still alive, and Hamilton wouldn't blink an eye of doubt when he would declare the British's attacking plan with every details and precision.

He wondered why Hamilton's reputation wasn't 'the black alchemist' because he totally was. He determined the plan on his fingers as if he was a puppet master, viewed and influenced the future as if he had seen it in his own pupils, his persuasion and inference weren't what a twentieth man should be endowed with.

Creole bastard wasn't really what he anticipated to be present in his critics. ( _But then again, rumors only grow._ )

Burr was a wonderful commander, his indecisiveness was smoothed by Hamilton's quick and unequivocal analysis. His moves were calculated and circumscribed, perhaps even graceful.

Hamilton and Burr were commutual. An interconnected orange and blue, completory at last. Their clashes ideologies only help the battles taking flags.

"Your Excellency? Hamilton replied, and Burr followed, nonchalant.

"Needed a drink?" And he knew that his reputation would be described as a mere mortal if anyone heard him, he repressed the bubbling laugh when he continued, "I acquired some whiskey. "

"I have the honor, sir." Burr offered, sounding pleased. He turned to Hamilton, "Philip?"

"Oh yes," Hamilton almost spited out, "I have another report to fill in, your Excellency. About the salary of our men and the implications of—"

"Hamilton." He all but whispered. His colonel's eyes flared up in a mixed feelings of tiredness and numbness. He needs a break. "This was not an option whom you can choose."

Washington had been aware of this man's manners. He would only listen to himself. And orders. If he can't be the first, let alone himself being the latter.

"Oh," His eyes were strangely fond, "then I am all yours, your Excellency."

Washington and Burr shared a glance, and smiled. Burr wasn't smiling like this —three months ago—Hamilton didn't look back at any of them.

As they poured their drinks, he wondered if he was going to confess his tom-cat's name to Hamilton, but he choose not to when Hamilton fell asleep on the desk, a whiskey still on hand. His eyes were now hooded under the thick and heavy eyelids.

Burr was looking at him, but Hamilton couldn't look back.

"What is this?" Washington asked, aware that was not a real question. He pointed at the north and repeated. "What is this, colonel?"

"It's land, sir." Burr seemed to be in the state of alcohol while he pointed at the south. "What is this?"

Washington chuckled a bit. "It's another land, colonel Burr."

"Why are they empty?"

"Because no one is there."

"You are wrong, sir." The eyes were serious. "We are here."

"We can't see the land. It's black outside."

"It will be white under a couple of hours, sir."

Washington's eyes wavered, and settled on Burr. "You are right, colonel Burr. Freedom always came with it."

He shrugged in response, Burr was way more open and relaxed than any other day, "Right?"

"Right."

Colonel Burr had brought Hamilton to his own quarter, leaving him alone. He shivered from the cold. Winter was coming.

_And he was only a mere mortal._

•••

He had seen colonel Laurens asking Hamilton countless times for a reunion with Lafayette, and every time Hamilton had declined.

He had seen Lafayette— _the unpaid, french volunteer, the ragged and honored aristocrat_ —practically _begged_ Hamilton to take a rest. He had excused himself as being a friend of Laurens' friend, but Washington can spotted Lafayette's own affections involved in this impossible mission.

(He felt an strange surge of satisfaction when he came to realize that he was the only one who achieve the undertaking.)

He had seen an empty glass yet filled beside Laurens and Lafayette when they were in the common quarters.

He had seen Burr's worried glance at Hamilton whenever they were on meetings, and Hamilton reluctant manner with everyone. He had seen and heard and watched and talked and smiled at rumors about Hamilton's behalf, his own behalf was rather good if compared to him.

He had seen because he can't something can't be said, he had watched because he can't interfere, he had heard because he can't deny— he watched because these young men were out of his reach— _because_ —

 _History has its eyes on me—me me me me me me— **me** — _the chorus was chanting, his mind drowning, and he can only prayed that the rumor wasn't valid—

History was so cruel of a destiny that he sometimes called it death.

•••

When he and their troops finally decided to eat their horse, Washington couldn't help but feel the despondency deeply impressed on his shoulder. He can't help but being frustrated and enraged. He wanted to shout—to scream—to yell—to _break_ —

But it's cold outside, so he kept his composure warm.

"Your Excellency. "

Washington moved his glance to Hamilton and sighed. His breathe was shaking for him.

Hamilton had taken over writing all his correspondence, though they still publicly declare that it was for drafting and function as an aid, but it's more like an open secret than not.

"Congress can't provide, and local merchants only take British money." Hamilton was strangely and horribly calm, and send its death sentence with a disgustingly numb voice. "We are hopelessly enslaved in Valley George, your Excellency."

He didn't comment on the use of words.

And Washington wasn't going to deny what was happened, was happening, would happen soon, but for this millisecond of his lifetime, he would like to pretend that all of this wasn't his fault.

He had allowed the British to erect strongholds in both New York and Philadelphia due to his policy of avoiding open warfare with the bigger and better British forces. He grunted. Congress was terrified and out for his blood.

(Hamilton had warned and showed his worry about it, but Washington had ignored, since he was too young, after all.

It finally proved that age had nothing to do with failure and mistakes.)

They had camped in this outrageous place, over twelve thousands soldiers under this blasting, brumal, gelid—rimy weather, dying, praying, and dancing over this fragile demoralized iced troops.

They were waiting a snug temperature, waiting for a chance to counterattack. Waiting for food, waiting for water, waiting for funds, waiting for _ships_ —

So they waited.

Hamilton didn't speak, he kept his mouth closed and distributing meals, sightseeing every soldier, and wrote. Wrote lines and paragraphs and wrote tirelessly, incandescently, until Washington wondered if he ever slept.

_Dear General Clinton,_

_Men have been fonder of the emoluments and conveniences, of being employed at home, and local attachment, falsely operating, has made them more provident for the particular interests of the states to which they belonged, than for the common interests of the confederacy._

"Sir!" Laurens came in their tent, looking frantically around as if they can't see them. Washington frowned and was going to remind of boundaries until Laurens seemed to recover his mind and composed himself quickly.

"...Tenth more expired today from unknown diseases, sir." He turned to Hamilton, and gave him a weak smile.

Washington tried to control his breathes, he counted and wondered if this will end the same as when he was sixteen. He wondered if he could die this time.

_How can we hope for success in our European negociations, if the nations of Europe have no confidence in the wisdom and vigor, of the great Continental Government?_

_Yrs Sir  
Your Obdt Serv_

_PH_

"Hamilton, how is going the letter..?" Laurens asked quietly, he looked like a man in grief. "I know it's too much to ask, I know you have indeed tasks, but this should be viewed by my father at the end of the month..." He shifted uncomfortably as Washington watched their interactions, attention elsewhere.

_Ten died and ten died and ten died and ten more and tomorrow will be more and tomorrow and tomorrow—Tomorrow's going to more of them, dying or wise._

"Colonel Laurens." Hamilton did a soldier wave, and smiled, "I have finished it quite a long time ago, but I thought that this isn't the good timing to send letters, you see," he pointed at nowhere, but also at everywhere in this tent. "we will have to wait."

"But—" Laurens recklessly complained, but then closed it afterward. He stayed silent and excused himself to part ways. And just like that, he was gone, like he never came.

Washington couldn't bring himself to care, the only sound ringing beside his ears was tomorrow will be ten more—as shame and guilt and malfeasance overwhelmed him, he couldn't sensed, couldn't _feel_ , only a thought that _everything was so wrong—he was so wrong and wrong and **wrong** —_

"Colonel, please keep this tent in charge. I will check the surroundings."

He didn't wait for a reply when he stepped out of the tent, feeling the fresh—the too fresh air attacking him, encaging him as he walked a bit faster, face unreadable. The soldiers' exclaims (or _whimpers_ ) were like an far away melody—too old and too melodramatic for its own good.

He stepped out of the quarters, because his kneels wouldn't gave up until they walked away from his own territory, because his feet wouldn't shake if he stood on that pedestal of honor, and because words wouldn't be so weak when he gave an address to the people—to the troops. And he needed to be out, because he was out of any rational mind.

_Because tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow and—_

_today?_

_**What comes today?** _

Snow were pouring down like wordless pleas, and somehow Washington only heard screams and cries. Cries wouldn't stop under the heavy flakes of white, covering the blood they have shed today. He prayed it would cover tomorrow's as well.

The field was silent, the praying was silent, and the steps were silent. And the world seemed to move.

He kneeled down on the snow, feeling its harsh and sweet coldness on his kneecaps, and pray.

 _Tomorrow will be more of us._ He told himself more to the Lord, _tomorrow should be more of us._

Suddenly, a blanket was drown down at him, warm and steady. He all but felt a shiver down his spine, and refuse to look out for a moment the stranger who kneeled right beside him.

"Tomorrow will be more of us." Silence screamed it out loud. Every droplets of snow was touching Washington with feather touches, and he couldn't even see who it was, but he knew.

There was quiet. And there was _Hamilton_.

They should be two separate things, but Hamilton's presence was so quiet that it felt like him, that silence was the only description for him, the rightful thing to say about him. Hamilton looked back at Washington, eyes full of glee, he smiled under the snowy storm.

"I found you, your Excellency."

"Colonel Hamilton." His voice was hoarse and tried and hollowed and empty and he felt his eyes burning, raging, reddening underneath the sentence. "Have you ever heard of freedom?"

"Of course," Hamilton answered with his eyelashes full of crystals, "They are white." He gestured the snow, "See?"

"Have you heard of mistakes?" He tried to not crack.

"Of course," He repeated. "I did many of them."

"Have you heard of the two combined?" His eyes widened as Hamilton seemed to think, because _tomorrow, tomorrow will be more of them—_

"Sure." He replied. "That's you, your Excellency."

Washington tried. He tried. He really tried. He tried and tried and _tried_ and fought but tears were there so he let it be.

He pointed at himself. "That's me." He gestured at the ground. "That's us."

He directed at the sky. "That's revolution."

Hamilton shrugged some snow out of his shoulder and managed to reach for Washington's blanket and tightened it around his shoulder, he laughed with shining eyes, it seemed that snow had gone in his eyes too.

"And it's going to be fine."

Washington choked on his own sobs and struggled to keep himself right, but it was warm and it was silent and there was Hamilton, so he let it be.

" _Son_ —"

Hamilton's eyes shone brighter, too bright to be remembered and laughed and laughed and choked on his laughter.

"That's me too, your Excellency."

_Tomorrow there will be more of them, and today was the tomorrow._

"I was there."

•••

He believed that Hamilton was really a black alchemist when Baron von Steuben stepped into the picture and made them the tomorrow he had prayed that day.

Hamilton answered with such a ferocity and fondness to his surprise that it was the best thing that ever happened to cross in his mind. He didn't regret that morning, nor the discovery.

So he stepped out of the line, and choose to forgive. And trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A BIG SHOUT OUT FOR DOGICAT11 AND EDVIN THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING AND THESE LOVELY COMMENTS I LOVE Y'ALL 
> 
> AND THANK YOU FOR EVERY KUDOS AND COMMENTS I TREASURE THEM IN A BOX AND LOOK AT THEM WHEN I AM SAD 
> 
> !!!! Thank you so much for anyone basically for reading my story in general tbh, thank you thank you!!


	5. In which he dreamt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Somehow Hamilton was not as chill as he seem to appear. Martha and Baron's appearances. And Laurens/Hamilton's duel with Lee didn't go as smooth as it should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ,,,,, it's 4 am im dying 
> 
> *going to sleep* oh shit tomorrow fic  
> Oh shit oh shit ohs hti *write like i am running out of time*

It eventually got better.

Resources were coming from Miss Washington, and Baron Von Steuben was helping Washington building an stronger system of organization, soldiers learning to replace bullets with discretion, precision and meticulously managed to regroup themselves under horribly wintered conditions.

"General Washington," said the Baron when he first arrived with his assistant Pierre, his thick accent didn't go unnoticed, "I can provide advices for your troops and give aids, but I would need a translator, you see, I am not very good at communicating in foreign languages. "

Von Steuben laughed with delight, as if nobody was starving for death and with playfulness as though his help wouldn't be primordial, they were that hurricane, destroying their surroundings without benignancy while extinguishing their own souls. They need him, and he knew it.

But it's okay, he had imagine death so much it no longer felt like a memory.

Washington looked rather composed but his tense posture betrayed him nonetheless. Lafayette wasn't fluid enough and colonels weren't supposed to learn this tongue in their criteria, even Washington himself couldn't claim its knowledge on this.

Alexander Hamilton observed at this scene he did witnessed once, and once thought was dishonored, because he should be in the battlefield, then die with a heritage and a prideful heirloom that no one could take away. Everything else in his life was taken away, so he fought for everything to take them back.

But it never worked. So when he stepped out, willing to be the translator of these great men, he didn't felt the shame nor any disgrace. He couldn't help the sick feeling of throwing up when he saw Washington's eyes light up the same way he looked at Philip.

It's horrifying how much Lord had blinded him into this constant circle of stained water, careless about what he will do in this life.

If it didn't work once, he will twist it once, if it didn't work twice, he will transmute it twice, if living again was his punishment and sin, he will still rise from its shields, because it had to work. For Washington, for Lafayette, for Laurens, for Angelica, for Mulligan, for American, for history—

_For Eliza._

_(God, he missed her so much.)_

"Monsieur Hamilton?"

He returned the smile as the name grabbed him by its drowning mind, and tried to make his voice— _his being_ —less tired than it was.

" _Oh, pardon, Baron_ ," He stood beside Washington and hoped he could be some comfort for this man—history will viewed it as a lie but history was the bigger lie after all—" _Alors? Où on est rendu?_ "

 

 

 

"Colonel Hamilton!"

Hamilton greeted warmly at lady Washington, and she was as bright and beautiful as he remembered her to be.

"Mrs.Washington," he frowned lightly, "I apologize for the offense, but you should be staying in your quarters, madam."

She didn't look offended but only mildly annoyed, "Oh, mister Hamilton!" She made a grimace and laughed, "Okay, I get it, you are angry for the tom-cat matter?"

Hamilton froze, a daily reminder of his past. "I don't what are you implying, Mrs.Washington."

"George hasn't tell you yet?" She suspiciously examined him with almost comedic expressions, Hamilton wanted to laugh out loud and _say of course I know I have come to know everything because Jesus I know that I killed my son wrote a pamphlet that ended my carrier voted for my worst enemy and shot by my first friend why wouldn't I know about this crazy thing about that tom-cat?_

But he kept quiet because he was tired of rewinding, and remembering what have been done and what have been made. He kept his smile firm on his face. And try to stop his stomach churning and crashing with its rest of food and memories altogether.

"George and I decide to name your title under my sweet pet, " she said fondly, " You are such a great man, a filthy one, to say, " she chuckled softly and pat his shoulder, "an intelligent and cheeky boy, what more can I want for my beautiful tom-cat."

As he sensed the warm of her hand on him, and urged himself to not put his hand on her. She had the same eyes as his mother, witty and kind. He wanted to remind her again _oh yes I also know that my mom died and I survived because she was praying for me, she prayed and gave her soul for me because dying was so difficult that she did it for me, and you should go now because I would kill you too one way or another so please I beg you don't ever spare your life for me—_

Hamilton nodded once, and gave his most charming smile that he can managed for the moment.

— _please please please please please._

"That's true."

Her laugh was beautifully sang, and Hamilton didn't say anything until general Washington came and joined the fame.

And all he want was to ran away from this chaos.

"Son." Washington called as his wife looked at him like a extremely infuriated lover, "I need you for the arrangement with the Baron. We are discussing about the troops preparations and changes. You might be interested to add your opinions as well."

He looked exhausted but he entwined his fingers with his wife's, a dear reminder of his affections for her. "Martha, with apologies, you may return to the quarters. Colonel Hamilton and I have a lot of work."

"Yes, yes mister Washington." She gracefully steeped out of his reach, "Enjoy your time with your son! I am going to see my dear Hamilton!"

"Pardon me?"

"My sweet pet!"

 

 

 

The days went on with poor moves but revived pride that they didn't realize they had lost it since. New aids and funds refunded the idea of war and attacks. Hamilton thought installing at Valley Forge was never a sign of defeat. It was a sign of reestablishment and reorganization.

As he wrote down his thoughts and preparations, Hamilton spotted some of General Knox's methodical steps in Washington's new techniques of retreat and attack attempts out of this tent when he took a stack of food and clothes and distributed it to them. He chuckled under his breath.

"Hey," An exhausted and a mostly hungry Burr asked, looking mildly annoyed, "you look to have your time of day, colonel Hamilton."

He swallowed the acid and did you mean the murderer of my son or the secretary of treasury of the United States or a traitor of my wife or a coward who died a thousand years ago or a creole bastard please be precise at the tip of his tongue and let out a smile, "Well, we are surviving, no, colonel Burr, sir?"

Hamilton looked at him, and felt the bile rose on his thorax, he perceived because he once rose a glass to freedom, he clutched up because he once wanted to tell the story, he sensed because he once was in for everything, he discerned because he wasn't in this position before. This moment never happened before.

He didn't wrote to his father, his brother nor to his Edward this time because _he didn't know_.

(He didn't know if he will commit another mistake and drag them into hell again and again and again and again.

Because James and Edward weren't there when he parted for America, his father wasn't there when his mother expired. He didn't know what it should be, what will destiny gave him in exchange of another chance.

So he crashed it and ran away for the first time.

 _He didn't know._ )

Burr shoved Hamilton softly and accepting his loan of bread and his stack of clothes, made by the women in the quarters—incredible work, he must admit— and agreed his statement with a half-nod.

"Reasons why you are distributing clothes to us instead of the wonderful ladies, Hammie?" The man waggled his eyebrows playfully. Hamilton laughed at the pet name, everyone seemed to be calling him like this and honestly he couldn't like it better.

"Oh? Excuse me sir?" He played the game with a smirk. "I present the first and foremost wonderful lady here!" He walked around Burr who was laughing genuinely—it never used to happen before, God he wanted to throw up— and warped his hand around Burr's.

It's cold.

He huffed some white smoke on them teasingly and he heard Burr's gasp. He exhaled a warm breath on the red knuckles and inhaled deeply to keep the bile in his stomach. Burr laughed louder with however quiet breaths. It's a wonder why he could ever do everything so quietly.

"Philip, please!" _Lord, he hated himself so—_ "It tickles!"

"Well, sir," He shrugged dismissively, "Endurance is a quality that every man should possess."

He looked at Burr, and as he locked eyes with him, they chuckled all over the new day, the new year, that new lifetime.

As snow slowly poured over, he remembered the day when Burr accused him for selling New York city's capital, when Jefferson and Madison was there—where he was Alexander Hamilton and where he died and died and _died over and over and over_ —

It was snowing. He guessed it was the irony of its achromatic, ashen, bloodless and immaculate way to confess that history will repeated itself.

He hoped that Aaron Burr was looking at Philip Hamilton, and not Alexander Hamilton.

_Because Philip Hamilton was not like his father._

_Because Philip Hamilton was taught, was educated, was self-conscious._

_Because Philip Hamilton would be the man who would love more than it hates._

_Because Philip Hamilton will be the one willingly heat someone's hands with theirs._

_Because Philip Hamilton had never hurt a soul._

_(He must have been so scared.)_

"So, what are you currently writing, Philip?" He asked curiously, like a friend. The thought made the bile rose again high on his thorax.

"I am writing about the future. Legacies." He closed his eyes, made himself at home— _home?_ — as he relaxed with Burr's presence.

 

 

 

The bloodstains ran on chin as he looked at Philip Hamilton himself. His son was full of freckles and smiles, his chubby hands ran on his face, and hot blood was imprinted like dried ink on his cheeks. He was holding his child who's smile and eyes quickly became empty when he touched his hands.

He wanted to call Eliza, but she was just beside her, ghost look with yellowed skin and hollowed eyes.

_She was dead._

Hamilton can smelled the dropping blood from her mouth as she whispered across his ears. "So, Alexander," she smiled and titled her head like a puppet. "you abandoned us."

"I-I am not! Eliza, my Betsy, I am so sorry, listen—" he panicked, tears were there and he didn't feel it, his hands were clutching his chest as he felt skin being torn apart but he didn't care.

"Pops, you killed me and left us here, ya know? Bad pops. " The baby looked at him with the same eyes as his mother that he once thought was so beautiful and wonderfully set. "Aw, don't cry, pops. It's alright, we know you."

The room brighten and he watched Laurens and Angelica. Washington was beside them, the complexion was the same as Eliza's. They are all dead but their mouths helped Philip to complete the sentence that made him grounded on the floor and not wanting to see anyone again.

"We know you." The choral had too much person in it. Jefferson and Burr went to its peak. "The biggest disappointment of all."

Eliza put a hand on his trembling back, and planted a cold and horribly ironic kiss. "Don't worry, love. We know you."

Philip Hamilton on his arms suddenly became the face of Alexander Hamilton, face full of sneer and accusations and disgust. The blood poured down his lips, as if claiming its history of fate.

"You know it too, Alexander. Rumors only grow." He drawls its sentence like a snake trying to strangle its adversary, only to realize that the only enemy was itself. "And we both know what we know."

He shook his head repeatedly, insanely and loudly—he was always so loud— and yelled at the room, at the crowd but nothing could be thrown at them. So he pathetically whimpered on the floor, holding his wife's cold corpse and whispered nonsensical thoughts for hours and hours.

But nobody was there to hear him, so he talked to himself. He dig up his hair and clawed in his skin as he screamed in the void. Nobody was there.

He wished he could die here, alone, before his mother would die, before Laurens die, before Washington die, before he impacted them more than he should.  
Dying alone was so much easier in his memory than living again with the people he once knew, he once laughed with, he once slept with, he once lived with.

But when he woke up with a start and found out a scared Aaron Burr, he found out that God was just as disappointing than himself.

"Philip! Are you alright?" Burr shook him slightly with a frown. "I was just about to leave."

He looked around and found himself in his tent, on his quarters. Burr probably brought him here while he slept on him again, he assumed. That last meeting with Washington was the same thing, he woke on his own quarters.

"Of course, Burr, sir." He smiled weakly still caught in his nightmare. It happened a lot these days.

Burr frowned more, unconvinced. "Philip. I know wars are tiring, and I understand that sometimes it can be difficult to adapt." He touched Hamilton's shoulder, wanting to comfort him. But it only made him flinch, it had the same feeling of Eliza's weight on his shoulder just seconds ago.

A flash of hurt crossed Burr's features and immediately retorted his hand back. He stand in silence while Hamilton felt the want to throw up again.

"I am sorry, Burr." He sighed. "It's been a long day." (A too long life) He reached Burr's hand and it took seconds before it closed on his fingers.

"It's alright," Burr's smile seemed more genuine than before, "It happens."

"...What?"

"You know," Burr blushed a bit, "It happened that in wars and ladies aren't here— at least not in our quarters— that you had those kind of... imaginations."

" _Lord_." Hamilton cursed under his breath and chuckled a bit. "Yeah, it happens, I guess."

 

 

 

"Philip." Burr said softly when he stepped outside. "I look forward to your legacies. I am sure they will be magnificent."

"Oh." Hamilton looked at him, night rain touching Burr's shoulders and moonlight creeped in like an aura contoured him and glowed brightly under the night sky. He almost trusted him.

"Me too." _He didn't._

 

 

 

When they finally get out of Valley Forge, spring was already blossoming under its melting snow. Hamilton was still writing to the Congress for the funds, to the relatives. He was also writing the New York Manumission Society, which was founded when the war finished. He had plenty times and he needed to take advantage of his knowledges.

Sleep was for the decreased. And if God wanted him to live another time, then of course times weren't for lying down doing nothing or hunting nightmares. Most times he just couldn't bring himself to sleep.

"Son," Washington looked pleased when he nodded each time he called, "I will assign Charles Lee as a general. He is second hand choice, but like I say, we need men."

Hamilton felt the same anger that coiled into him a lifetime ago but he managed to stay civil. Well.

"Your Excellency." He started and trailed his voice unconsciously, "Charles Lee isn't fit for this rank, sir." Because we lost many of our troops because he couldn't keep it in his pants, he want to say. But that would be not civil and well. He tried.

"Oh?" Washington rose an eyebrow, and amusingly examined him. "Who do you think is fit, you?"

"I think Lafayette would be a wonderful candidate, your Excellency." He suggested and knowing that it was true. "He is witted, tactical and planning are his fortes, he would be—"

"I have an idea of him, son." Washington softly interrupted him, "Lafayette is my lieutenant, he can't be replace. I know all this."

If being civil will prevent the sacrifice of their troops, he was willing to do it. "So?"

"I think we have to give general Lee a chance, don't you think, son?"

He balled his fists tightly. "But—" _I gave him a chance last time and he didn't take it—_

"Dismissed, colonel." He said more forcefully this time, though his eyes were as smooth and warm as always, so Hamilton knew that Washington wasn't angry. Just tired.

"...Yes, your Excellency." A short bow on the head and he steeped out of the tent.

He collapsed the second he get in his room, hands shaking uncontrollably as he eyed furiously his papers. Hamilton wondered if ever change something, if his restart would serve to something. It needed to serve to some purpose. It _should_.

 

 

"Don't do a thing, history will prove him wrong."

"History only proves what it wants." He can't help but add. "And it proves only when people act."

"Son. Please."

Silence.

"Okay, your Excellency." He laughed. "I will go and convince colonel Laurens."

 

 

  
If they were a thing he could probably change, it's Laurens' will.

But when he was in front of that curtains of the tent and his hands turned damp and his breaths taken away, he knew that maybe he should reconsider the statement.

"Colonel Laurens?" The sound was low enough that he was sure that Laurens didn't hear it. "May I?"

"Of course." The muffled voice came from the tent. "Colonel Hamilton?"

When he entered, he was surprise to see that the man was half-dressed. He wasn't embarrassed, they did slept on the same bed after all. Lafayette was with them at that time.

"Philip?" Laurens prepared himself to get dressed and Hamilton, chuckling a bit at his messy curls. He reached out before thinking and managed his best to arrange his hair. It was curled on his fingers so perfectly that he suddenly remembered why he was here.

So he dragged his hand back and tried to respond correctly.

"Laurens."

"Why are you here?" Laurens seemed to want to return the favor by letting him sit down and doing his hair. "You are not here for those small talks, right?" They were disappointment in his voice and Hamilton simply ignore it and concentrate on the feeling of Laurens' hands on his hair.

"Don't duel with Lee. It's not worth it."

The hands on his queue lingered seconds before the owner spoke up. "What? I thought you were on my side!" The voice was sharp hurt and frustration. Hamilton just wanted to stop let these hands massage him for the rest of his life. He knew he can't.

"Look, Laurens— I know what you mean, but you might get hurt and Lee may not be a competent general, but he shoots like everyone else. This duel wouldn't bring to anything. "

Laurens finally came to his vision when he let go of his hair. "He spread false rumors on general Washington! I can't let it slide!"

Hamilton took a shaky breath and stood too, he liked to argue, but not with his best friend. "If you ever do the duel, that's what it will wound the general's reputation, Laurens. We are talking about the greater good here."

"Besides," he added with a false calm, "general Washington doesn't need out defense, he can protect himself with its own power. Lee may be harsh, but he is still important. We will have to keep him."

He couldn't bare to look at Laurens' eyes when he said it, but he can imagine his reaction already as Laurens' yelled, "You are always talking about the greater good, Philip! Sometimes I wonder if you are really have emotions," he made quotes marks with his hands as he yelled more, "so cold and collected, as if no one is in your pretty eyes!"

"I'm sorry?" It was barely a whisper because Laurens wasn't done yet.

"Do you even have loved ones?" He asked sharply. Hamilton did not respond, _they_   _are_   _all_ _dead_. Laurens laughed with mockery.

"Because I am sure that if you have one, you will understand the will to protect them!"

"Laurens, listen, I know—" He looked around, and around for more things to observe before he got to have eye contact with him.

The situation was nothing Hamilton planned on having. Laurens may be harsh at times because he stubbornly wanted to win an argument just like him, but he wasn't cruel at him. John Laurens was never cruel towards Alexander Hamilton.

That was when he realized that he wasn't Alexander Hamilton anymore, and he long lost the privilege a million years ago.

"The problem is, you do not _know_ , Philip." He looked at him almost pitifully. "You have been pushing me and Laf away for the moment you met us." He paused. "Burr was the same."

They were tears down his cheeks and Hamilton wanted to get shoot again rather than to see Laurens like this. "General Washington was the only one you let in! And now you are talking about some amoral and stupid, the so called 'greater good'?!"

He knew that Laurens was emotional, always on the edge, he didn't blame him. It was true what he said, after all. He was tired after these days of pure survival, but so did Hamilton. 

(He was just like him, reckless to climb and fearlessly wonder if this world was wide enough for his thoughts, because they were too much to bear, _too much to write_.) 

Hamilton steeped closer, trying to make things right—they should be— _they need to be._ But Laurens was the one who close the distance. His face was an inch from him when he whispered with bitter venom. He wondered if this was another nightmare and if he should be awake soon.

"Philip, do you even know what is to be human? You don't have feelings. You walk around with a smile and wave goodbye with a smile. That goddamn times when I see you show some—" he drawled. "I supposed it was all a trick."  
  
"Laurens—" His last attempt to try and convince his overwhelmingly frustrated friend was cut by that friend himself.

"That letter against slavery, you won't send it, will you?" Laurens was already at his way to the door. "You don't care anyway."

He didn't look back when he ran away from his own tent.

And Hamilton repeated to himself that this was okay, because he wasn't Alexander Hamilton anymore. 

 

 

The next day when he found out that Laurens shoot Lee in the side, he couldn't help but feel a helplessness of a thought that he would not change anything in this lifetime. Only destroying everything he had gained. 

He was called by Washington soon after, Laurens beside him.

They didn't share a word during the way to its general's quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For everyone who left me a personal message I am so so sorry that i didn't reply!!!!!! It happened a lot this week so it was kinda chaos 
> 
> THANK Y OU SO SO MUCH FOR READI nG!!!!


	6. In which he understood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurens is confused, rlly confused 
> 
> Washingdad and Hamilson y es

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why it's always 3 am

_One_ — He thought he was the hands of their member.

He was the ligature of their flesh, a interconnection too difficult to ignore, united and meld with its people, attached and bracketed in ties, bringing, dragging and toted four different men within its circle of red stings.

He remembered all too well the number of times braced them with his hands, smooth and easy _— (two) disputes dies and no one shoots—_ he had rubbed their shoulders gently, comforted them with fretfulness and carefully asking for solutions.

And as he looked at his hands now, and the gentle sunlight— _(three) duel before the sun is in the sky, they said_ — the pistol was in his hands, charged and ready to hurt whatever whom came in the way.

 _Four_ — Lafayette would be their brain. His quickness and speedy execution of orders made him a tactical weapon, he was full passion and impulsivity, he gestured wide, outstretched, scopic, far too reaching— but that was what they need to build a war. It was based on images and loosened souls, it's based on ideological fervor but mostly on thoughts. Thoughts went to actions, and actions died on thoughts.

Wars were pre-designed, pre-wanted. And all they need were thoughts to sparkle. 

Lafayette didn't know about the duel. Laurens would love have him as his second— _(five) negotiated a peace with his seconds face to face_ — but he doubted Lafayette's give his accord on this matter, so he resigned this choice.

As he looked at Charles Lee, his second and his doctor— _(six) the doctor turned around so he can have deniability_ — he watched with amusement as sweat came on Lee's face and the voice in his spirit yelled again and again in quiet cries as he slowly raised his pistol.

 _Rise up. Rise up. Ri—rise up._ _ **Up**_ _._  
  
_Seven_ — Mulligan would their feet. He wasn't here. But he walked for them. He walked to New York, collecting informations about the British troops, Mulligan walked away from the war, but he walked in thoughts of actions, so it didn't have any differences.

Differences in time of war were camouflaged, dissipated by the rumors of death.

 _Eight_ was the number of steps he had to take before he have to fire.

 _One_.

**Rise up.**

_Two_.

Mulligan was the oldest of them, if he was there, he would tell him to stop, _like a dad._ He refuses to laugh at a moment like this.

 _Three_.

He rose his pistol a little too high, so he lowered it.

 _Four_.

He breathed out. And fixed the target.

 _Five_.

Lafayette sure would be angry, but he would be proud of him if he managed to hurt Charles Lee, the man whom Lafayette had despised since the first time he had seen the general.

 _Six_.

**Rise up.**

_Seven_.

_Rise up rise up rise up **rise up—**_

_Eight_.

He arrived in paces. Burr was Lee's second, and viewed him with a worried glance. He shook his head, as trying to say _give it up._ He didn't.

 _Nine_.

Burr turned around. His second did the same.

 _Ten_.

The piercing sounds were alike the calm blue in the sky, more like the hint of yellow in the wild blue yonder. His bullet shone in the morning sun.

_What would Hamilton be in their circle?_

 

 

 

It was a _scratch_.

"Lee did you yield?" He sarcastically asked, knowing it was just a scratch.

"No, colonel Laurens." Lee replied with the same tone, holding his damp hands on his side, seemingly feeling the aftermath of fear. "I did not yield."

Laurens smirked, he can work with that. He looked at the sky. It's still early morning. "Another round?"

"Another round." Lee agreed.

Duel was a game of chess. Losing was checkmate, while winning can be checkmate too. This game was not a play of winner. It's a play of honor. The winner and loser were giving the honor to each other in order to gain them back, that sliver bullet meaning the honor of their respect.

It's a question of speed. And luck.

As they reached their weapons again, pulled the trigger, put the powder in the metal of scythe, and counted again.

"Sirs, that's enough." Burr said and stood eagerly between them, grabbing them by the arms. "I am afraid that I have to call this an end. " His voice went smooth and neutral, as if he didn't take a stand on any sides. "Lee yields."

"I am not satisfied yet." Laurens laughed out loud, and Lee nodded.

"I didn't—" Lee cried out, wincing a bit afterwards by that side scratch. He tried again, to Laurens' amusement. "I didn't say—" He wanted to continue but this time he was interrupted by an authoritative voice. And everyone froze at it.

A different song came to his mind. It sounded like gunfires and chaotic beating as his heart took his rhythms and palpitated with it. _So here comes the general._

"What is the meaning of this?!" General Washington came with an affronted voice, and only this made Laurens shook off his cold anger to no matter what was going on on the fields. Washington took a quick glance and ordered. "Colonel Burr, would you please afford some medical attention to general Lee?"

Burr looked like he was going to say something else but he just nodded, and took Lee by the arms and helped him to get in the medical tent.

Before they go, Washington sighed a long and deeply breath and stated. "General Lee." The limping man turned his head at the call. "You shall have the right to not agree with me, but believe that I took importance in my men's health and wellbeing. Go. "

After a pause, he drawled out, as if it was painful. "Thank you for your service." It sounded less like a praise, more like a resignation statement. Laurens kept his composure, because he had gone this far, he wouldn't give it now.

_He had done nothing wrong._

Burr didn't say a word and observed Washington with a intensity that clearly showed how much he wanted to express himself. He finally gave the split.

"Sir?" Washington looked at Burr like a bother for a moment but then nodded for his approval to speak. "May I ask if colonel Hamilton was aware of this?"

Laurens couldn't look at any of the men but he can feel Washington's eyes on him. "Yes, he had knowledge about this tension around Lee and colonel Laurens."

_What would Hamilton be in their circle?_

"But he didn't know about today's implications." He said, "Please summon colonel Hamilton for me after you set general Lee with medical care."

"Of course, your Excellency." Burr said with a quite long syllable at the end, and went in its way.

_What would Hamilton think on this duel?_

Washington examined the terrain and the long shadow behind the shambled figure and a seemingly satisfied Burr and without looking at him, he said quietly. "Meet me inside, colonel Laurens when colonel Hamilton will be here to join you to my quarters."

_What would he say?_

He wanted to say here, right now, in this second, that _I didn't do anything wrong, Lee was an immoral and a coward who said atrocious and mostly false accusations on you, sir. I didn't regret it nor mistake this as an act of mindlessness or childishness—I did right. And I stand here to prove this point—_

But he didn't. Not because the general's parting form, not because of the deadly silence that overrun, assailed and overcome him, not because of the perspiring, clement, tepid, balmy and scorching wind that set him into his spot, speechless.

The sky was a tainted cerulean cloudlessly drowning in his eyes. So he stopped all thoughts and watched the blue wind and said— _scratch that— what he said wouldn't have any importance—_

_But what his eyes would say?_

"Colonel Laurens." The voice startled the wind, so he turned to where the wind told him to lead. Hamilton was there, standing there and a firm line was his mouth, wind lifting his sorrel mixed with carmine spread of hair but that wasn't the essential of course.

His eyes told him so much than his words. And the sky was lighter than those two bluestones of disaster. They were disastrous and nauseous ones. Too _blue_. Too much. Everything was too much about Philip Hamilton.

His eyes were silently looking at him, and it irritated more than the sun in his eyes. Hamilton darted around his body, as if trying to see if he got hurt—and his pupils softened when he saw none. The wind was still on Hamilton's direction, swilling, spilling and swirling his hair over his eyes and Laurens thought _that is it._

"Colonel Hamilton." He began to walk. And he knew for a reason that he will follow.

_That is it._

He heard the steps. So he didn't stop to wait for him, because he knew Hamilton will not slow down.

_Hamilton was their eyes._

They didn't share a word on their way to the general's quarters.

 

 

 

Washington was not a mere mortal, they said.

Maybe it was true, Laurens had always admired his general's sedateness and imperturbability, and so far haven't seen his composure being lay down to them like a mortal would do in sign of distress. Nobody had ever seen the general showed many emotions throughout the war. But then again, emotions weren't needed in thoughts and actions.

Wars contained its emotions and affectivity into those silver pistols and it served to shoot in friends' jaw, or between their ribs. It didn't matter.

They entered the room silently, as if fearing to woke him up. He carefully calculated and calibrated each steps and prepared himself to the worst.

Washington looked at them both with measured precision, and the voice was barely a whisper.

"Son."

Laurens felt Hamilton's chest rose up and his eyes sparkled like clouds and he responded almost immediately. "Yes, your Excellency?"

"Did you send the letter for mister Jay?"

He seemed shook by the question, and after a suspicious glance at Laurens, he replied. "Of course, your Excellency. I send it a day ago."

"Good." Washington put a hand on the wooden table. "Now you may retreat, son."

"But sir—" Hamilton looked at the both men and furiously protested while Washington settled him down with a heavy hand on his shoulder, as if Laurens wasn't right beside them.

"You are dismissed, colonel."

Laurens balled his fists and looked away. This seemed way more personal than it should.

"...As I shall, your Excellency." He heard steps behind him as Washington's voice came again. "Son."

"Give my greetings to my dear Martha, if you may."

There was a pause and Hamilton's light chuckle went and covered the tense silence. "I receive the order, sir."

And then he left. Laurens was faced with his general, waiting for the words to be drowned in and out.

"Sir." He began eagerly, wanting to prove himself, "Whatever it is, general Lee started it."

That was already a mistake, he realized. He was the one who duel him. But what was said was said, and if he heard Washington laughed, that's none of his business.

"I see." The general said with a impressive tone. "What did he started?"

Laurens' hands were torn in his clothes and he felt the cold and sharp pistol on his right hand. He was clutching on his weapon, this what was that cost all his way through here. And he blamed it. He would knew how to answer if Charles Lee _really started it._

"Your Excellency, Charles Lee, Thomas Conway tried you down like some muckrakers with no real proven points!" He exclaimed with no small amount of anger, "I should have shoot him in the mouth for this matter—"

_"Look, Laurens— I know what you mean, but you might get hurt and Lee may not be a competent general, but he shoots like everyone else. This duel wouldn't bring to anything. "_

Washington stopped him with a hand in the air, not wanting to hear more of it. "This is a war, colonel. I do not wish infighting or competitiveness within my troops. " He slowly fell on his sides, but the tension on the general's shoulders didn't drop.

"You solve nothing, colonel Laurens. You aggravate our allies to the south." Washington said this like a instructor teaching his students—a simple statement. "This duel was a waist of time."

" _General Washington doesn't need our defense, he can protect himself with its own power. Lee may be harsh, but he is still important. We will have to keep him."_

"But sir! It was a personal attack on you—" He shouted out, but he felt the white flag raising high on his sides already, he felt the shame raising at the same time of his words— he was going to lose and yet— this game had no losers.

"I can take arguments, " Washington said, harsh and clear. "All you did was to destroy mine by claiming that our military was mindless colonels who didn't for being shot at war period. "

" _Don't duel with Lee. It's not worth it."_

"It wasn't worth it, colonel Laurens. And I ask you, with all due honesty, what did you do wrong?"

"I didn't do anything that I regret, sir." He stubbornly spluttered out, and some part of him thought it was true, _it was true_ —

Washington looked at him with hollowed eyes and his bags were obvious under the sunlight that traverse the tent's slim tissues. And Laurens didn't want to say another word to upset the man in front of him, he understood with sudden clarity that George Washington is alive, is breathing and is currently in dying need of a break.

"Well then," He closed his eyes, and reopened it with a sharp light in them. "You may leave."

"What?"

"Leave this army. I do not need a irresponsible man in my troops. Duels are against the conduit, colonel, and you are conscious of it. I am fairly certain. " His eyes were piercing, and Laurens had too much dreams too lose on this foreign affair to let it go.

"Illicit actions were worth twenty lashes, your Excellency, " He balled his fists until he felt nothing but the blood on his nails and the white knuckles by gripping too hard. This can not be happening. "but not a complete banning of the soldier, sir!"

"Of course, colonel. I am aware of the conduit more than any men in this army. " Washington said with a glint of malice in his eyes, and it angered Laurens more than anything.

"Sir! If you may please let me interfere—" Laurens closed his mouth and his eyes widened in shock as he realized that it wasn't his voice. Hamilton was standing right beside the entry, flushed face and ready to speak. He had never seen him in such a state.

Washington didn't even fake stupefaction, he watched Hamilton's entry with gleaming eyes, and Laurens can finally confirmed that _yes, the general is only a mere mortal after all._

Hamilton began talking and it was collisions of words and sentences in which he stated the expression of law and the denial of rights, and some terms he ignored its existence. He wondered if this young man could possibly have finished his study of law nor practice apprentice. He was so young that he did underestimate his values, but then again _himself_ was not old enough to underestimate someone else.

"Colonel Hamilton." The general can't hid that hint of a smile on his face when he told him to talk less. "That's enough, I see your points."

He then stopped his rambles and glanced back and forth to them and sighed with relief and embarrassment at the same time. "You knew I was there, your Excellency."

Washington hummed, looking a lot brighter, "Yes. Martha will always come to see me right after you visit her. Discussions about getting you a wife. Since you were incredible with ladies." He laughed with delight.

He addressed to Laurens, waved a hand of dismissal, "My apologies, colonel. It was certainly just a trap to get Hamilton outside of his corner." He heard Hamilton's groans on the background. "You may return to your quarters. Exception shall be once, never twice."

Laurens observed Hamilton and Washington; they were rumors about they being blood relations, since Hamilton did not want to reveal his past to anyone, and that Washington was simply fond of a creole young colonel wasn't common enough to be considered as normally war bond.

" _Don't duel with Lee. It's not worth it."_

And yet he could say that they agreed on a subject he would never agree on—

 _Requiem_.

"Sir." He stated with conviction. "Punishment should be applied to any soldiers, and I may have the rights to claim these."

Hamilton was the first to unscramble the meaning and quickly jumped in. "Laurens! The general already said that you are freed from such implications." He wanted to put his hand on his shoulder but the hand stopped on mid-air and returned to its owner. "You don't need to do this."

"Your Excellency." Laurens have no desire to talk to Hamilton now. He just need this shamefulness and dishonorableness that swirled in his stomach and intestines. He may won in the duel. But there's no real winner than the one who kept his honor close to his chest.

"I realized the notoriety of duel and I do think it was by pure impulsiveness that I stand out for it, I have known the consequences behind and I would take full responsibility like any other colonels."

Hamilton wanted to speak again, but Washington set a hand to let Laurens keep talking instead. A stupid surge of pride emerged him of the general choosing him over Hamilton.

"But I would not regret today's decision. I will assume the responsibility for this matter, but will not regret nor hope that today's event didn't happen." He paused and added hesitantly. "I would still shoot Lee in the mouth if I got the chance."

Washington's chuckles finally made his shoulders relaxed a bit. "Young man, I get your statement. You shall go to your quarters and this case is now over. You could learn better. But lashes won't help you to get to the learning. "

Hamilton nodded hurriedly, almost comedically fast. Laurens still couldn't let it go.

After what seem like a decade of inner fight, he said, "Please, your Excellency. I beg you with my being. Please."

Washington sighed softly and quite tiredly. "Colonel Laurens—"

" _Please_."

"Sir!" Hamilton asked, "At least, you could split ten lashes to me, I was in the part of this affair too—"

"Colonel Hamilton, you will be my second."

"What?" His face was suddenly white like a sheet. "You are not asking me to—"

"To assist me and general Washington, of course. This will need a warder to prove this punishment had been assist, and recorded."

"Wait, colonels, I didn't even give my approval." Washington said, wanting to set this down a last time. "Laurens, you may go to your own quarters. Do not let me repeat—"

" _Please_ , your Excellency. This is important for me. "

Washington gave a long look and without a word, he had reached for his slave Ben and after a moment of wait, his slave came back and handed him a whip. The room fell silent.

"Son. You may leave."

"But I need to—"

"You need nothing but to listen to me, colonel Hamilton. This is an order from your commander."

The steps were outrageously light, and Laurens just had his back on Hamilton because they all knew too well what was coming. A scratchy sound of tissues being lift and stop there. "Laurens."

The sound of tissues being left out and the sentence reached his ears before the curtains closed.

"I am glad that you didn't throw away your shot."

 

 

 

"Does it hurt?" Lafayette asked, Burr at his side, worried as well but seem rather detached by his composure. Lafayette poked his back as Laurens winced and took a sharp intake of breath. He shivered at the touch.

"Goddamnit yes, Laf! Stop touching the wounds!" He cried, and grab his hands to throw them away from him. It's _dangerous_.

"Aw, I am sorry, my dear Laurens." Lafayette made a sad face and handed him over a little bottle of medical products. "Here."

Laurens picked up the object and contemplated upside down. "Wow, thanks Laf! What is this?"

"Magic!" Lafayette clapped his hands together and hummed along his clapping. "That's what Hammy said about this when he gave me to."

" 'He gave it to me', Laf. " Laurens corrected him as he slammed head first on the table. "Ah...Hamilton."

This seemed to pick Burr's attention. "What it is about him?"

"Nothing..." He lied. "He's just a strange guy, and he is still refusing our invitations." He shook his head, flat on the table, "Do you think I should apologize, Laf?"

"Yeah."

"Why so much confidence?" Laurens laughed quietly on the wooden table, he had been struggling with this for three days and Lafayette just seemed to have a clue about what was going on.

He's a _brainstorm_.

"You have your goals right?" Lafayette asked with a tilted head. "How do you deal with them?"

"I try to achieve them." He did his best to shrug with his head on a table. "Like normal people would do."

"And you Burr?" Lafayette turned to the other colonel, curious. "What do you with your dreams?"

Burr kept a smile on his face when he answered. It was quite compatible with his facial expressions. "I talk less. And I smile more, sirs."

"You see?" Lafayette gestured vaguely in the air, as if it meant something. 

"See what?" He asked furiously. "You are not clear here, Laf."

"We have different solutions for the same problems." Lafayette shrugged as if this would remove the anger from Laurens. "Yours may be the best solution, but for Hammy, it's his solution that was _ze_ best!" He laughed at himself. "Sometimes you just have to accept that people have their own opinions and solutions, Johnny."

"Quit calling me Johnny, Laffy!" He shoved him gently and laughed along. Burr smiled with them.

" _Burr_ , it's cold." Lafayette said and warped his arms around his chest in order to continue his play. "Do you have your two-cents to add? Burr, sir?"

"Well— I had a advice for colonel Laurens when you will see Philip. "

"Yeah?"

"The art of compromise is to close your ears and eyes." He said. "Sometimes you shouldn't see what you don't need to see."

 

 

 

When Laurens arrived on Hamilton's tent, he wasn't there. So he entered in, secretly promising himself that he will not touch anything.

But when he saw the mountains of letters and papers, he failed. His hands were reaching out for his drafts, essays and writings about anything and nothing.

(His writing style looked incredibly like the one who made the open essay against the loyalist Samuel Seabury. )

When he was face with a yellowed paperwork and a stack of sentences, he knew he shouldn't read it. Compromise will not be a compromise if the other dealer was not even here.

_The Federalist No1_

He felt the guilt overwhelmed him as he read the pages, because it felt so wrong, _everything_ _was_ _so_ _wrong_ —

_You will, no doubt, at the same time, have collected from the general scope of them, that [these ideas] proceed from a source not unfriendly to the new Constitution. Yes, my countrymen, I own to you that, after having given it an attentive consideration, I am clearly of opinion it is your interest to adopt it._

This should not be words which a twenty years old man could write—

_An enlightened zeal for the energy and efficiency of government will be stigmatized as the offspring of a temper fond of despotic power and hostile to the principles of liberty._

God forsaken, this was not words a man should have—

_It has been frequently remarked that it seems to have been reserved to the people of this country, by their conduct and example, to decide the important question, whether societies of men are really capable or not of establishing good government from reflection and choice, or whether they are forever destined to depend for their political constitutions on accident and force. If there be any truth in the remark, the crisis at which we are arrived may with propriety be regarded as the era in which that decision is to be made; and a wrong election of the part we shall act may, in this view, deserve to be considered as the general misfortune of mankind._

_What was he talking about?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for the comments!! I am incredibly grateful for your kudos and comments.... I always posted them on nights so usually I can't really sleep because I am so nervous about what would people think about my fic, and when I woke up with comments it.... just made my whole day brighter 
> 
> Thank you so so much for taking time and writing a comment!!!!! 
> 
> Next chap will be aBOUT LADIESS


	7. In which she lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Schuyler sisters! Angelica is roasting everyone what's new.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its 2 am so it's better i guess

_**1780** _

They were wealthy family, she knew. _The envy of the ballroom— the sliver gold in a spoonful of Britain tea_ —she chuckled darkly as the charcoal locks of hair smoothed her frame when she titled her head on the side of her sister's shoulder.

The propertied and prosperous family of the town, the eldest daughter of Continental Army General Philip Schuyler— _Orlando's poems lover in those mythological legends_ — she heard enough.

The carriage went on, stumbling on rocks and stained the rolling fields with its wheels of silver route, the snow still melting on the surface of wooden rotation. She sat straight, posture lady-like— _so they have been told_ — and stance reserved to an empress's will.

She shall not fell on any other side if she held her head high. But Eliza was beside her, so she let herself relaxed without the heaving weight of conscientiousness and firmness on her shoulder for a while— _god if only Father would let her rest for a while—_ she let a soft breath and called her sister by her christian name.

"Yes, Angelica?" Eliza put her head on her's and Peggy joined in with a little too much enthusiasm and her head hurt physically and the rough contact of Peggy's impulsiveness. She laughed anyway. "Angelica?"

"Yes, dear?"

"I understand our purpose for this event, " Eliza dressed in her beryl dress and her features smothered as she continued, "but Peggy is still too crude, and therefore young and abrasive." Peggy protested on the background, but Eliza's voice was no way near despicable so she let her go on. "Isn't too early to set her a husband?"

Peggy stopped her protest and nodded eagerly as she realized what she was implying. "Yeah, yeah, Liz's right! I can wait for another year! And daddy said—"

"Daddy said that it's time for you to settle, Peggy." Angelica straighten herself, trying look authoritative, "You are already twenty, dear."

Because Father is not the General of the Continental Army, he is also a businessman, starving for profits, dying for legacy.  
Though she looked frustrated, Peggy set herself down, arms crossed, and bit the inside of her cheek. "Fine. "

Eliza smiled kindly— _altruistic, lenient but too warm_ — she radiated over this fieldstone of war, and Angelica just want to tell her that _Dear, don't burn yourself, because the sun is in your kind abysses and you are the Iracus yourself, burning with passion and beauty—_

_You will burn yourself, pieces by pieces if you continue like this, Sister._

"Father just want you to be happy, Peggy." Eliza said, and Angelica was relived. She knew how to lie, that's already a start. Because that's how women do in order to survive. _Lies and pretentiousness._

The three of them all knew that they will marry a wealthy man, a family of relation surely, in all fair marriageable connections. A gentleman, they will say. A gentleman twice her age, willing to spend his livings with her— _she will be the one sharing her gained fortune with a man he barely knew_ —so Angelica just took a breath, _and pretend._ Lies were better to be hidden under a skin of truth, and truth was better without sense of judgment.

Peace was covered by bloodless deaths and bloodshed truths. Peace based on wars and destruction. So diverted her eyes, _and pretend, breathe, and survive._

"Besides," Angelica said, trying enlighten their realization of the truth—the distance between the justice of choices—"maybe me or Eliza will find a gentleman, God knew what will happen on this tremendous ball!"

Peggy huffed but her eyes knowingly took the subject in hand, not wanting to talk about their earlier topic again. "These bachelors are all mostly officers! I wouldn't imply their politeness by the place they are living right now." She snarled. "I am better than them."

Angelica considered nodding, but she just laughed and pinched her cheek. Peggy was too bold, too arrant, too insolent, too discourteous, and Angelica knew that she wouldn't complied the rules, the invisible lines of this political battlefield— _pretend, breathe and survive—_

"You know that this invitation by Mrs. Washington is a honor to our family, right?" She calmly told her, like a sewing machine— "Soldiers in this combat are honored by their bravery and do not degrade them for their lesser status. Every men are created equal."

"I know!—" Peggy exclaimed, flushed. "I am just... I just want to spend more time with Liz and you..."

Eliza came and hugged her tightly, soundlessly pretend that marriage was a choice, and living was one too. She buried her head on Peggy's shoulder, and Angelica watched all this— all this truthful aristocratic issues— she placed each hands on her sisters' cheekbones—where invisible tears had been blessed with women for the past century—and kissed them both.

She didn't pretend that it didn't hurt.

Peace is based on men. Peace is based on submission to Lord. Peace is based on ruthless marriage and spurned choices and forsaken rights. She silently prayed for god's mercy to her two sisters.

Love was a privilege that women couldn't grasp. Choice was an advantage an empress couldn't even claimed.

"You will find someone as kind of you, sisters." She believed it genuinely— _pretend, breathe and survive_ — and she will not negotiate the happiness of her family on such thing as peace.

Because if anyone would hurt her sisters, she wouldn't mind to start a war.

 

 

 

After a tea break with Mrs.Washington, they met the general Washington itself, giving Angelica a view of the quarters, as well of this whole Continental Army. He didn't seemed to notice them behind.

Washington's cold and calculated gaze swept across the fields, standing tensely His fingers curled forcefully on themselves until the knuckles turned white. That was when Angelica understood that before he was a planner— _a general_ —he was a soldier, Washington can choke her with his single hand, kill them with a blow.

The King was watching his subjects, planning another step to check mate. Sacrifices within analysis.

She stood in front of her sisters, just in case.

Angelica was ready to go when she saw the general's eyes burnished, broke in a glow of pride, his hands flattened, and a corner of his mouth titled up and down, clearly trying to gained control over his emotions. The whole image was hilarious, and she heard Peggy's soft giggles and Eliza's silent laughter.

She looked to Washington's sight, and saw two men discussing, one was turning his back on her, and she can only see his redhead— _a bright flaming dahlia_ —and his lieutenant's uniform.

The King on his throne, admiring his favorite son.

She was enjoying the view and Washington's sudden fondness until her eyes caught the other man's face. The redhead rushed away, each steps quick, timeless— _stressed and hassled._ She almost want to tell the man to take a break when Washington sighed and called the other man over, all light gone.

"Colonel Burr."

Burr looked over, and saw Angelica, a smirk on her face. So Burr is getting a job? Never knew this man would ever find one. He walked to his general, a sharp bow of greeting. "Your Excellency, didn't know that you had invited the Schuyler misses here. " Washington turned around in shock as Burr smiled at them, looking more sincere than their last encounter.

"Those dark brushes should not to be seen by ladies of your status. I may suggest a better place than battlefield, misses Schuyler."

"Didn't know that you have find a way to survive without courting at whoever you saw, sir." Peggy mockingly interfered, Burr didn't flinched, but his smile wavered a bit.

His mask is getting weaker, Angelica thought. He was the reflection of the water flake, an interminable depth of flask. Throwing a shot of this endless stern and unwavering water was impossible, since it will flew down the water and disappear without a single thought—no change of melody, _no move of this motionless lake—_

( _Persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed._ )

But here Burr looked— _moved_ , the waves began to shook out of this cascade's rock, and it transformed to an electric cerulean blue, ready to match the orange of the dawn. He was still a reflexion—flexible and mirrored what anyone would love—but the waves didn't wait nor hesitate to hurt. It meant to have be more than just a reflexion.

Maybe this lake will transform into a cascade, running downhills to a destination that he had aimed for since the beginning, but too afraid to run. Maybe it's a crack in the mask that will turned to another one. _Maybe it's Aaron Burr, finally waiting to give a change. But maybe—_

_What have changed you?_

"All my apologies, misses." Washington guiltily took Angelica's hand and tipped a greeting kiss. "I was in my mind, thus forgetting my surroundings." She smiled and forgave him with no real wrath, the general was too busy in the game of chess, so it seemed.

"I have to ask for your retreat, ladies." He said with an apologetic tone, his hands moved backwards, and settled behind his back. A King's mercy. "I have issues to discuss with colonel Burr, therefore I will attend to the ball at night and we shall have a pleasant talk. I am sure that Martha will be happy to—"

"Mrs.Washington gave her welcome already, sir." Peggy said, unscathed by the words, "We would like to greet mister Burr too."

Angelica resisted the urge to laugh at this underlying _you are the one who should go sir._

Washington stared at Peggy for a moment before sighing in defeat. "Colonel."

"Yes, your Excellency?"

"Where did lieutenant colonel Hamilton went? I have some advancements and planning that lack his judgment."

Burr's eyes streamed of zeal and Angelica huffed a soundless laugh. _Ah._

_This is the reason why the lake started to oomph and zap._

"We were preparing the plan for the siege of Charleston, your Excellency. Just some details, the decision is still on your quill, sir." He quickly added after seeing Washington frowned, "Then we discussed about the weather and else unimportant matters, and he said he had work to do, so he returned shortly after."

Washington nodded, the gleam returned to his eyes like a flash, "Colonel Hamilton is a busy man. More than me, even, " he gave a light tap on the shoulder to Burr which made him straighten even more. "My gratitude for the information. Then, it's all yours, colonel."

The last sentence was more flirtatious than necessary, but it didn't stop Washington's good humor as his light steps disappeared under the melting snow. Burr clutched his hands and looked at them with somewhat a tired expression. But Burr shouldn't feel anything at all, so she let it slide.

"Would you like me to guide you to the invitees quarters, gentlewomen?" He asked without a dallying voice, and its expression was sincere and cautious. Her defensive stance smoothed down to a more courteous one.

"Thank you, dear sir," Eliza said, kind as usual, but her eyes were observing, sharp, cognizant, apprehensive, acquainted, appraised, _knowing_. "Mrs.Washington already show us the way."

Her eyes met hers, Peggy's followed them, and jovial as she was, she quickly understood the meaning. She giggled a bit, making Burr more uncomfortable than he already was.

"Ah." Burr shifted embarrassingly, not knowing what to say. "So, I will leave, since I have preparations with your Excellency and Philip too—"

"Oh, oh!" Peggy excitedly jumped out, eyes shining with malice. "Have you found someone? And who's Philip?"

"It's personal matter, miss Schuyler." He replied politely, but this tone implied the nonsense of this whole conversation.

"Of course, sir. My apologies for my ruthless sister." Eliza put a hand on Peggy's, looking at her with the same wit in her irises. "How is mister Hamilton? Please send him my thanks for all the service he provide for us."

"Oh, of course, miss Schuyler." Burr smiled shyly—Angelica wanted to end this game already and start to shout _that this is not the Burr she knew_ — "He did a lot for our cause, and I would like to thank you for this kind appreciation, miss Schuyler."

"Certainly, mister Burr." She wave a careless hand in the air, Angelica watched her playful eyes and thought she got him. "I wonder if he will be at the ball tonight...?" Her features flickered with an great acting, and Angelica took her time watching Burr's expression slowly turned sour.

Peggy was laughing in the background. Angelica covered her mouth before it was too late.

"Yes, I supposed." Burr let those words out like some rusty letters, "But he's really silent and sometimes even too focused to understand anything around him. " He said as if he did experienced it himself. "And he doesn't address to strangers, miss Schuyler. " His voice was full of blatantly hidden warnings that it was becoming ridiculous.

"Well, then." Eliza laughed softly, without any doubt satisfied with this answer. "I see. I will visit you and mister Hamilton this night. Me and my sisters should return to our quarters." She held a hand when Burr was to follow. "No need to guide, us, mister Burr, I thank you kindly."

"You and Peggy can go, " Angelica stayed as they were to depart. "I have some things to discuss with colonel Burr. "

Eliza looked at her with worry. "Are you sure?" Peggy asked the same with her big round eyes, looking ready to throw a blow to Burr if needed.

Angelica laughed with exasperated fondness. "Go, you two. I am fine. Burr is not an evil man. "

The sisters send one last look to their eldest, and after an encouraging smile, they turned and went to their supposed quarters.

The wind splashed through the lake in the sunlight. Burr's eyes shadowed on her turning heels, returning to the challenge field. The wind was warm.

"Mister Burr." The last game was finished, so they started a new one.

"Miss Schuyler." Burr seemed to know too. He picked black ones, he drew second position.

"Anything to say?" She smiled sharply, picking white in chess game was a dangerous move, she started the opening, but probably never end it white. It ended red.

"Yes, of course." Pawn were moved, the King must be protected. "I apologize for what happened that day on Manhattan's street. It was my mistake and I was too... _deliberate_. " He stepped out a bit of the zone, already preparing for the Queen's escape.

"Oh?" Bishop should make it, he was fast. "How so?" She put her hands on her waist, and set the knight in place, ready to attack.

"My manner was immature and it possibly hurt you, and I am sorry, miss Schuyler." He swallowed something and waisted his pawn called pride— _in the name of the game, pride is only a pawn_ — "Now, apology set, will I have the permission to go, gentlewoman?" The last one was full of sarcasm, challenging and defiant.

This lake was way too long and it was deriving on the ocean level. She looked and estimated his rise. Two steps and he was the loser of this chess game.

"What if I say no, dear sir?" She ate his pawns like it was nothing, the goal was not them, anyway. "I am not easy to satisfy."

She circled him around for about two times and put a hand on his shoulder. She whispered to his ear like an amorous lover because her voice was a voice of a rook. _Check mate._

"If you ever approached me or my sisters like that ever again," Burr's eyes couldn't meet hers, it's alright, the King was being eaten anyway— "you will burn."

She didn't care looking at Burr when she turned to go, because the winner didn't need to complied to the loser. A voice did stopped her, though.

"Miss Schuyler." Burr called, and Angelica, not bothering to turn around, still heard the muffled sentence smuggled by the wind near the lake.

She stayed a little longer than intended, and after hearing Burr's footsteps far away, she finally break through a laugh— _so the pawn had reached the end of the line and the King renewed—_

"I will send mister Jefferson your regards, miss Schuyler."

 

 

 

 

"Jefferson is an ass." Peggy said at the ball, a plate of food in hand—mostly smashed reserves since the war was still going on—"I don't even know why you even bother to mention him in your speech for Burr's improper comments!"

The ball wasn't really a ball per say, it was in a great tent— _proposed by the Baron himself_ —soldiers still wearing their uniforms— _to show their status, because she will had to talk those who would still have a coat on it when the funds were much lesser than the Congress had planned_ — still, it was an enjoyable night.

Mostly for her sisters.

Eliza wasn't in the middle of the ballroom, but still looking bright and smiling shyly at the public, she was grabbing the spotlight without being in it—she was one. Peggy, still looking more interested to find proper food than anything, swept the plates, laughing alongside her new friends.

Angelica was mostly dazzling in this room full of potential political partners. Some were in the upper class status, and they knew her father. It could be a good opportunity to attach or reinforce the links, economic ties.

"I see, miss Schuyler. " Officer Jope said, smiling at this failed prodigy of a daughter, "I am looking forward for your Father's plan to be achieved so that we can discuss about further development."

"Of course, mister Jope. " Angelica kept her formal features as she decided to clear the path and go to another correspondent. "I look forward for our companionship, too. Now if you may excuse me—"

"Oh, please wait, miss Schuyler." Jope bought his son and introduced him as a gentleman of great honor, but his gestures weren't nothing more but extremely annoying and irritating, she would better have Burr than this man he didn't even know the name. But she knew the rules. And she can play the game.

 _Pretend_.

"This is my son, Alexander Jope."

 _Breathe_.

"Thank you for your service, mister Jope."

_And survive._

"I wouldn't say less, miss Schuyler."

 

 

 

When she saw the night sky and breathe the fresh and cold air off the tent, she no longer pretended that this ball was enjoyable. Jope neglected her in late night when he heard her opinions about men's rights and the Congressional drafts she did had a chance to look at it. She got a chance to get out of this place— _for a second, please God, leave me a second—_

She looked around the tent, the guards were observing suspiciously her and when they were about to say her about her departure she said that she just want to relived herself. Being a woman's only advantage was that no one will ever follow her when she wanted to relived herself.

A lady's delicate subjects.

She walked down the lighten quarters, the routes were covered in dirt and grime, but it was way too late to care, so she stepped in those unofficial streets and lights with her favorite dress, wandering around as almost the entire Army was celebrating.

Until she arrived in a small river, a man was sitting on a rock beside the water, scribbling furiously at a stack of paper, the only sound was the ushered papers, changing it as soon as the man finished the page. The moonlight transversed the night clouds and showed his back. By his narrowed shoulders and small frame—and the redhead, she could tell that this was what they were playing with Burr.

_The flame who changed the lake into a cascade._

"Hamilton." She whispered, but the sky was too silent for the man to unheard it.

When he turned around, Angelica suddenly understand why Burr had said he was silent. Imagine him with a quick-witted mouth, he would be a disaster.

The moonlight smoothed his features down, the aura around him wavered behind the soundless river, made him more quiet and sincere. His eyes were sparkled a blue almost blinding in this darkened place, in this darkened war, those darkened rights— _and he killed the light to make light— that's why this blue went blinding—_

It will kill the light in hers to look at them.

Hamilton wasn't really as calm as the aura surrounded him would imply, he frantically arranged his stack of paper and his mouth were seemingly searching for words—for breaths.

"A-angelica?"

She frowned as her heart began to gained a normal speed. "You know my name?"

"Ye-s, miss Schuyler. Of course." He seemed to have come back to common sense. "The Army was thrilled to see you, miss."

She didn't thought that she was this well-known. "Is this true?"

His eyes were soft, too soft that Angelica wanted to believe those pair of eyes would say. "Yes, course." A pause and he hesitantly asked, a flush on his cheeks even in the dark hours. "Um, miss Schuyler, would you like to share a view with me?"  
Her brain was quicker than her mouth, but they were reaching the same answer, "Why not, mister Hamilton."

She stumbled a little bit on her way to Hamilton, since dress wasn't the best equipment to go travel in the river but the eyes were so soft that she forgot what it felt when her feet hit the rock. Too soft.

"Isn't this beautiful?"

She looked at him and nodded with conviction. "Yes."

Hamilton looked a bit shaken but then chuckled with a melancholy that she can't placed. "I am flattered, miss Schuyler. But I was talking about the river."

"Oh!" The blood ran through her face as she stared at the water. "Of course," she said, eyes opened and flew like the tiny waves of the black river, "it's wonderful."

They stayed like this for a few minutes without talking, and Angelica almost forgot that Hamilton a stranger. He felt so familiar, so oddly intimate, so _soft_ —

"Do you think the river would die?"

"Uh?" She was pulled out of her fantasies forcefully a question whom clearly do not deserved an answer. "Pardon me?"

"Will the river be lifeless one day?" He asked again. "Will the circle of deathless lifetime of this river stop? Papers and quill were born to be used, then renewed circle should be used for God?"

She looked at the man and knew that this was more than just a philosophical question, it was about him, she considered the answer carefully before whispering calmly.

"It will. Everything had an end. " She touched the freezing water and let it drip in her hand before she touched his cheek with it. Hamilton had a sharp inhale of shock, but otherwise didn't say anything. "The water I just touched you with. It just died."

He didn't replied, he just watched plainly her finger as the water left a trailed mark on his left cheek.

"This river will one day be out of water, and no matter how long it will take, river is not endless."

"I see." He nodded carefully, his eyes glimmered with something more than just blue this time. "Thank you, miss Schuyler. I think I should—" He stood up, but his last syllable was broken by a man's shout.

" _Philip_!" A man ran through him, excited, "I was looking for you! I want to tell you—" The seemingly colonel looked at Angelica, suddenly embarrassed by the scene he caused. "Oh. I didn't know that—" He looked between Hamilton and her, and swore quite loudly. "I am so sorry I—"

"It's alright, Laurens." Hamilton smiled. "Miss Schuyler and I were just admiring the river." And without giving him a chance to interfere, he said, "We can discuss whatever you need if you take a walk with me okay?"

"Of course! I mean, yes..." Laurens laughed sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck.

Angelica was already making her way out, knowing that it was not her place to stay. Hamilton called her out again, and her heart skip a beat again and again.

"Thank you, miss Schuyler." _And again._

"Of course, sir. " She couldn't really hear what she said over the heartbeats that were crushing her ears. "I would like to thank you too. It was a great view."

They shared a glance and Hamilton nodded.

"So it's _not_ endless."

She wanted to them about not traveling too near the British quarters for the simple reason that they weren't far away, but her heart was overwhelmed by one fact that couldn't get out of her head.

The conversation last at least three minutes.

 

 

She didn't saw them again for the next month. The general's eyes were colder by the second it passed. Mrs.Washington complained about her husband's treatment to the Army, more harsh than before. Days flew away like a prey running away from its predators. Days of research were served to the wind. 

 "Colonel Hamilton did a lot of work in advance, as if he already knew he would be capture by the redcoats." She heard Mrs.Washington worried words, "Colonel Laurens was an excellent commander, we will eventually need him in term of battle. Aides are not what it missed." She said carefully, "It's the trust that my husband built with the two men." 

"I hope they are fine." She concluded with a sigh. "My husband is on the edge." 

After thirty days of search, they still couldn't find Colonels Hamilton and Laurens. Angelica, guilt and anger aside, prayed the same thing as she once prayed for her sisters— _please please please stay a—_

_Pretend, breathe, and survive._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again thank you so much for the lovely comments and kudos!!!!!!!!!!!! I am so sorry I didn't have time to reply, I will all reply them tomorrow!!!!!! Thank you so much for reading too!!


	8. In which they talked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They finally have the talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST OF ALL I AM SO SORRY THIS CHAPTER IS SHORT TOMORROW IS MY BIRTHDAY SO I AM IN PREPARATION NEARLY THE ENTIRE DAY SO I DIDN'T HAVE TIME TO WRITE TOO MUCH I AM SORRY 
> 
> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING AS USUAL

The lake was a mistake.

Angelica was standing there, flaming red dress with those same eyelids, cut in the same way as the last time he saw her—lids full of sorrowed paints, her tears were tainting his cheeks when he was suffocating for air, he was _dying_ —

But he blinked once, and suddenly he was back to reality, alive and alive and alive, meeting an more alive Angelica, flushed cheeks and messed hair. It was almost more terrifying than her at his bedside, asking fervently if he needed water, because his mouth dried and it hurt his thorax and _he couldn't breathe_ —

His name was whispered and his hands went cold, because Angelica couldn't know, she shouldn't know, she mustn't know— she didn't need to know. But when he turned his head and saw the dark eyes— _without any hatred or intensity she used to look at him with—_ he made a sigh of relief.

He was being a fool, nobody will ever know.

Hamilton knew the ball was just a sideway near the lake, he knew the Schuyler sisters were the envy of all, he knew Burr was teasing him for it, he knew that if he could marry one he could be drowned with wealth, he knew and because he knew, he decided to write instead.

Because he had a plan that wouldn't involve marriage and faked sincerity, he had a plan where he can afford, he can afford _everything_ except—

(He could not afford to look Eliza in the eye.)

But she was here, eyes full of smooth dancing, as if she was still in the ballroom, dining with the wealthy men and women instead being with a man who doesn't an acre of land to throw.

The depth of history, circling round and round into the abyss that they called destiny. Hamilton would have preferred to call it euthanasia.

He had always been a hopeless romantic, a poet who seek the words to express love the better way possible, but at this exact moment, this second of reenactment— there was only _one_ phrase in this mind, struggling to take whole place in his bloodstream—

_There was_

_A splash quite unnoticed_  
This was  
Icarus drowning.

(The lake was a mistake, he said again to himself, if he flown too close to the water,  
he will be _drowned_.)

"Do you think the river would die?" He asked quietly, searching for some of answers he didn't realize he wanted. _Do you think if I will drowned if my wings touched the water? Because the sun had already melt—_

"Uh?" She seemed taken aback by the absurdity of the question. "Pardon me?"

"Will the river be lifeless one day?" He asked again. "Will the circle of deathless lifetime of this river stop? Papers and quill were born to be used, then renewed circle should be used for God?"

Because he was a paper cut, and papers will always resuscitated, rejuvenated, reinvigorated, revitalized—  
Will he be endless? _Will the river cut him out and soiled him like their weakened wings? Will he be out of reach from his own recognizance—_

"It will. Everything had an end. " She looked and him and replied with unexpected seriousness. She touched him with the cold dripping lake's reserve, but his cheeks burned in reaction. "The water I just touched you with. It just died."

"This river will one day be out of water, and no matter how long it will take, river is not endless." She continued and Hamilton just laughed inside and thought,  _ah, I see._

_It would keep scooping the water until he had nothing to give.  
He is not Galatee, Pygmalion should not ask Aphrodite to release life in his already died form._

When Laurens stepped in the picture, he only wanted to laugh more because he can't escape, even he choose his own path, the persons in there didn't change, it was irony, it was raillery, it was repartee, it was incongruity, but mostly it was a play of jibe, daring him that he wouldn't change anything, that no matter what, the ending would be _the_ —

Alexander Hamilton was not one to back off a challenge.  
Philip Hamilton either.

(They paid the same price, after all.)

"So it's _not_ endless."

He waved goodbye and stopped _could you please tell Eliza and Peggy that I was there and tell them that they should take care of themselves Peggy will soon catch a cold I remember and Eliza Eliza Eliza is she alright_ those vomiting words in himself and faced Laurens with a frown.

Angelica still looked the same, bright and epigrammatic, she was exactly like this since their first encounter, willing to-do.

(It made him remember his daughter. She was just her aunt, a brilliant little thing. She was light in his arms, and he used to tickle her tummy because it made her laugh, _like birds_ , he thought. Like birds he brought her when her eyes were full of tears and plain sorrow.

Angelica was dull after his brother's death. Parakeets and watermelons didn't help.

She hated him for the rest of her life.)

Laurens was different. And Hamilton frowned only deepened when Laurens' eyes switched from nervous to suspicious. Hamilton knew his friend, he have come two lifetime to understand that when his eyes changed like this, it meant only one thing.

_He knew._

(The last time he saw him like this, it was in his wedding. It switched and twitched the same as it did now. He would assumed it was for different reasons, though.)

It was with sweat and warm bones that he set his papers in his bag, and stood in front of him, asking, "So?"

Laurens titled his head a bit and sighed. "Come, Philip." He took his hand and drag him out off the lake, where the silence reigned and the peace was confronted by two persons he should be able to avoid. 

The lake was a mistake. He should have write in his quarters instead being here playing romantic, look at what cost him.

"I was searching for you in your quarters," Well damn. "You aren't in the ball, why here alone? We are near the British troops." Hamilton viewed him carefully, wondering if he should correct him.

"A couple of _acres_ , colonel."

Laurens chuckled, "Still."

They walked a couple of quarters, and only the wind can tell where they were at the moment. Hamilton was not a patient one. He had so much work to do.

"Laurens." He turned and all trace of silliness gone, "What do you need?"

The steps were louder under the melting snow and quiet breaths, but Laurens' words were thundering under the weight of raining syllables. It felt cold even if Hamilton can't touch it.

" _To the People of the State of New York,_ " he said mechanically, repeating something — _something that Hamilton wrote back at 1787—_ he still remembered that marvelous feeling when he saw the print on the papers— and the rainfall emotion about _what comes next?_

"Stop." He whispered out, barely shaking.

Laurens nearly gave a glance before continuing, " _after unequivocal experience of the inefficiency of the subsisting federal government, you are called upon to deliberate on a new Constitution for the United States of America._ "

"Please, Laurens." He squeezed their linked hands, wanted to end this dreary conversation. "That's enough."

" _The subject speaks its own importance; comprehending in its consequences nothing less than the existence of the union, the safety and welfare of the parts of which it is composed, the fate of an empire in many respects the most interesting in the world—_ "

"I said enough!" He shook his hand out of his grab and pulled his hair back instead. He let out a frustrated sound because how dare he looking at my personal account— _how dare he wondered in his quarters without permission—_

"Say what you want, Laurens. Don't stole my personal knowledge."

How dare he found out about this? He shouldn't know about this. Nobody should know. And then suddenly there's Burr's voice beside him again, the same voice that hunted his dreams—

_Rumors only grow, Alexander._

Laurens shrugged, nonchalant. "That's all I remember, too. Don't worry." He paused and looked at the moon rose from afar. "I was going to apologize, that day, for what I have said to you before the duel," he lowered his lashes, "you were right, and I had receive what I deserve."

"You still don't regret it." Hamilton laughed softly to no one in particular. _Maybe himself._

"Yeah, I will still shoot Charles Lee in the jaw if ever given the chance." His eyes were serious, but they sparkled lightly after hearing Hamilton's words, content that he agreed.

"You are half his age, sir." They walked deeper into the woods, where lights were no where to be seen, but nobody noticed. "And reading my personal correspondences were not what I call apologizing."

He put a hand on his face, tired. What he should confess? _Honey, I was actually died but then for whatsoever reasons I came back like a windpipe down your throat, and here I am?_ No way.

"Well," he stopped walking and stared at him dead in the eye, "you are half his age too, and I am fairly certain that Lee wouldn't wrote an essay like this." His tone was rather amused, probably Hamilton was looking away from him. "' _The Federalist_ ', if I am not mistaken?"

"This is none of your business, sir." He snapped, "Look, it's late, we need to—"

"Really?" He raised an eyebrow, a smug grin on his face, but his eyes were flashing a sign of hurt. His heart sank low in his chest.

He wouldn't see it— _impossible_ — he just scraped some papers and wrote that letter in ruins again out of nostalgia— it wasn't destined to be read, hell, _nothing_ of in that stack of paper was meant to be read yet.

" _Cold in my professions, warm in my friendships, I wish, my Dear Laurens, it might be in my power, by action rather than words, to convince you that—_ "

A frustrated growl and it hid the next words Hamilton had wrote down with his own hand— wrote down by his own mind, his own goddamn brain–

 _Rumors only grow, Alexander._  
(The worst thing that will ever happen, was when the rumors were truer than his brain.)

"Okay," Hamilton sighed as he watched Laurens' stubborn demands quietly became a plea, a wonder, his eyes smoothed down and asked wordlessly to an explanation. "Laurens, I will answer to one question."

"One?"

"One."

Laurens' fingers curled until his knuckles were whiter than the spring snow—since when that was what he occurred to his friends?— and his eyes were fierce once they set on him. He knew when Laurens wanted something, he will get it.

(So when a lifetime ago, when he saw Laurens cutting himself— _that want of death_ —he stopped him. Because if Alexander Hamilton wanted something, he would get it. _Better than anyone._ )

"Who are you?"

Silence enveloped them slowly, steadily, but somehow too quick. He wanted to laugh, claiming this question was way too vague and swept it down, but this question totally made sense.

"Do you want to know _who_ I am or who _I_ am, sir?"

He smiled a bit and held his hands in defeat, as if Hamilton was a child _(he was not)_. "Just tell me what you know about yourself, Philip."  
  
"Me? Philip Hamilton?" He asked, trying to spare some time for him to properly think before answering.

"Well yeah," Laurens laughed, "I hope you know at least something about yourself," he said, "a man who think about a nation who has no knowledge of its victory yet, _you_."

He swallowed _but financial plan was primordial to whatever situation presented, silly man_ —and considered the question with almost comical seriousness.

Hamilton hummed and just stared at the sky, its clouds and probably the moon— there was too many pictures flashing through his mind, too many thoughts, too many words he did not have the time to write down— yet when he looked at the full moon under the trees, small dots of black and yellowed glow— he just wanted to rest.

(They used to lay on the quarters ground with Lafayette, like children who sneaked out at nights, watching the stars passed by. They used to talk about their dreams, he was the one who planned out layers of attack strategies, Lafayette would talk about his will to free France and its people, and Laurens will always babble about the black battalion he proudly designed with him—

But nothing was the same, and he realized he could have it all the way, but _he_ was the only one who made it difficult to do. _He_ was the one who refused invitations and asks, _he_ was the one running away— _he_ was the one who decided to hide.

Nobody ever ask him, it was _him_ who felt things had changed. Because _he_ changed.

This only thought terrified him more than anything.)

The moon was the same moon, the sky was the same sky. Laurens was still the same, longing for a justice even bigger than the unfairness in this play. His eyes were impatient and he waited for it.

His throat felt dry and choked down by emptiness. His mouth— _five hours at the constitutional convention weren't enough to run his mouth out— was drowned in air, and he suddenly didn't know what he should say—_

"Halt!"

And Hamilton turned around, along with Laurens. A young redcoat was standing near them, warily viewing their preys with his musket pointed towards them. His mouth suddenly knew to move, and he spited the words like venom, but they were too dull to set any menacing undertone to anyone.

"Oh shit."

 _See_ , he wanted to point with his finger but he can only rose his hands towards the sky, _this is something I am not. I am not a redcoat aiming to kill at midnight in a forest near its enemy quarters._

Laurens rose his hands on the air with a sneer, but complied to the rules. They had no weapons to drawl, and they were in the clear spot while the soldier was standing in the shadow, face unseen and didn't move an inch since they found him. He could shoot him and Laurens almost within a second if they ever dare to rebel.

All he had was a stack of papers, he had considered throwing all his letters to that guy in the face just for humiliate but the papers were too important to waist, so he waited.

Wait for morning. The general and Lafayette will noticed their absence or even Burr, and they would send aids, they will send aids, they have to send because he couldn't die here, Laurens can't die here, _he had so much work to do—_

"Yeah." He agreed without blinking at the man in front of him, "Stay still."

"Okay." Hamilton whispered, he concentrated and try to figure out what was the next move. Maybe it was to _not move_.

"State your rank and name, sirs." Hamilton almost sighed in relief. The tone and the used words were implying that he was a gentleman, a man of wealth. He can work with that.

"Lieutenant colonel. Philip Hamilton, sir." He made a bow strictly military and he can hear Laurens gasped and the man's musket made a trick sound. "I am a honest man, sir. May I know your given name for fair exchange?" He continued, "I wouldn't want to misnamed your class, sir."

If he got his name, he would be able to track the man down when they will be saved. He had nothing to lose if he had more informations in his hand.

The man seemed to considered this option a moment and nodded silently. He held his musket more tightly, as if a warning. "I am rather sure my name would not be unknown. I have no objection but—" Hamilton can felt his eyes flickered from him to Laurens, "I would like this mister here to be more corresponding like you, colonel."

He can't see Laurens' face because they had to keep their eyes on the man on the front, but he can hear a sigh of resignation, "Lieutenant colonel. John Laurens."

He saw him nodded in the dark and stepped out of it, weapon still in place. The shadows move and they kept their breaths steady and calm. Hamilton's widened in shock as the face was smoothed by the moonlight, light and soft, as if they were not in a dangerous situation where their lifes were depended on that trigger and a swift and slow motion.

_He knew him._

"Major John André. Sirs." His features were the same when he visited him in prison, the moment of his execution was still clear in his head. Hamilton wanted to put that bullet in his head already. "Now, I have to request, colonels, do please take off your coats."

"You are under arrest to deflect our King's will, rebels." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Hamilton literally write a 10 pages letter to Laurens about how John André was too pretty to be hang HAHAHAHA THIS GUY WAS STRAIGHT 
> 
> \- His daughter Angelica Hamilton was mentally ill after Philip's death. He brought her birds and watermelons but it didn't worked. Hamilton seemed to be depressed years after Philip and never recovered. This tragedy affected more than one person. 
> 
> \- The Icarus thing was actually a real poem, wrote way after Hamilton's death, but I feel I have to put it dkosmxkdkls
> 
> \- I am reading Pygmalion recently so I just add my two pints in the fic please don't mind me 
> 
> Please note that this fic is mostly not historically accurate and principally follow the musical plot, so please don't yell at me 
> 
> Thank you for reading and if you leave a comment I would cry it would be my best birthday gift


	9. In which it happened (again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drip drip all have gone to shit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!! THANK YOU FOR ALL THE LOVELY MESSAGES ANGELS!!!!!!!
> 
> I am sorry for this chapter  
> Mostly for my grammar but also,,, other things

The night air was mild, but still chilly under the numbered trees that covered the shadowed rebels as he watched them slowly undressed their coats and the only difference stripped down, they were only men.

Men who believed in a meaning, a freedom that can also be called inmate rebellion. Sometimes he wondered what they were even fighting for.

But he then remembered how he was treated, beaten around and being drubbed, threshed, thwacked—the trounced feeling of defeat in that prison cell, down on his kneels and lashes were sending on his back, burning, the executive treatment to a loyal gentleman from rebels. Or maybe a slave in its own system.

That's when Andre realized that maybe this war was based on treatments, and not ideologies.

(Collisions of freedom and rules were too often combined with treatments and offers to not be suspicious to consider its importance in implementation of declaration of independency.

And they were here, keeping the order and law in place, while working on reducing them by raging the row of rights.)

He set his eyes on the warlike soldier, examined him with precision and calculated scrutiny. The taller one— _Lieutenant Colonel Laurens, so it seemed_ — was agitated, his hands moved in a perturbed way that suggested a hot blooded will to fight.

He carefully managed his gun in control, preparing to fire at any given moment if he wanted to escaped, but when the colonel's eyes lingered on the other rebel, the tension suddenly smoothed down into a wary but warm glance, a sense of calm filled between them in that electric moment.

When colonel Laurens turned his eyes back to him, his eyes were a waveless and stromless sea, as if the other rebel had been a ground force to soothe the waves too ruffled for its own good.

 _Trust_ , he concluded, trust was what grounded the other in place, that was what clenched a bond, and this was what made it broken too. Benedict Arnold was too trusted by the general Washington, and that was Arnold's downfall, and his own downfall as well.

This encounter could be a chance, a renewal, an opportunity of regaining general Clinton's quarters and delivered a new trusted source, this could be a mercy, this could be his rise— because he will rise again— _or being killed with a bullet in his skull_ — two choices.

He eyed the other rebel— _Philip Hamilton?_ — and he held his musket with conviction and force and move it just millimeters to point him instead of colonel Laurens because he was wrong, Philip Hamilton will be the one who would be impulsive enough to put that bullet in, without hesitation.

His stare was exhaling with intensity and cold ardor—but there was no hatred, no disgust— his stance went almost protective for the man beside him, as he looked at him with a general's ability to froze its subordinate into order, yet he looked barely in his twenties.

So before this man get any further control, he just grasped the weapon with determination and set their ending sentence quick and painless.

"You are under arrest to deflect our King's will, rebels."

When they were walking through the bushes and the knee-leveled water and these patriots were heeding his orders to walk in front of him, the musket on their back, he heard colonel Hamilton whispered to the other one, yet not bothering to cover his voice under the nature crowd in the night. It was slow, almost like a promise.

"If we made this alive, Laurens, I will tell you."

He didn't heard any reply or follow up, but by Hamilton's lowered head and compliant move, he assumed he maybe imagined himself the words that follow.

_So don't die on me._

 

 

 

They finally settled in a cave for the night, the route that rely to his men was too difficult to travel at night without horses.

He himself followed the route because he used to collect informations at night. Any British spy with two lieutenant colonels of the rebels side would find difficult to transport them at night without any equipment except a musket and papers.

They were all dampened from the water they had to traverse, he didn't give any explanations about easing their sent from bloodhounds from their troops in the early morning, but their knowing eyes also made things easier.

(They were slaves of the war, and if they ever tried to escape, they will be hunted to death, Heaven or not. Andre wondered if _that_ was the part they understood.)

They stood now in the small cave, when soapy clothes and tired eyes, nobody knew what to do for a moment, bracing in the silence of the night and the more quiet moon, and they breathed out a sigh of silence, all of them waiting for someone to speak first.

It was Hamilton. "I will make fire, sirs." He turned to them, "Please seat down. I will not escape as long as you have colonel Laurens in your disposition, major."

"Of course, I can also shoot you at two miles length, I possess a great marksmanship, colonel." He smiled politely and meant it sincerely. "Please go on, I appreciate the offer, sir."

Hamilton gave a last glance at Laurens, an almost sick expression of guilt and care spread on his face for a second and it was gone. He left them alone, near but not enough to hear anything from there.

"So, colonel Laurens?" He turned the smile to Laurens, wanting to see his reaction. His musket was still in his hand, and if he ever hear a sound other than gathering branches of wood, he will shoot.

The colonel in question was looking at him with a mocking expression and snorted, "If you ever want to collect miscounted informations out of me, I just want to make it clear that it would be impossible, _spy_." The last word was full of venom, but Andre just shrugged.

"This is primordial in every war, colonel Laurens." He replied calmly, "Wouldn't be surprise if you personally know someone at your disposition who is a prideful rebel spy, sir."

He flinched a second, as if a sore spot had been touched, "We are not rebels!"

"Well, insisting inter-colonial wars and ignoring your Majesty's will and if this plain war is not a sort of sinful rebellion, I would maybe hesitate before responding—"

"We are _not_ rebels." He gritted out through teeth, and Andre only changed for a more comfortable position nonchalantly, not wanting to discuss any further. It was only a lost of time, he knew. Ideological fervor was not what he would categorize war in. He would welcome discussions in battlefield, with swords and weapons.

They sat there in silence for a moment, Laurens looked as if he was going to have a burst of words soon enough, but he seemed to know that it will served to nothing, so he turned his gaze at Hamilton's back instead, as if this was more interesting than looking at the ground in boredom.

The truth was, it was more interesting indeed. So when Hamilton turned around with a sweaty forehead and a relieved smile to announce the success of the building fire, he was surprise to see the two men all looking at him, waiting for him for ten minutes already.

He laughed, "I assume that you didn't have a great conversation, Laurens? And yet major seems to be a gentleman." He made a gesture to tell them to come over and dry their clothes. "I'm I right, sir?"

He couldn't help but let a chuckle slip his mouth, musket still in hand, "Oh, well. I thank you for your comment, colonel Hamilton. But you see, minds can be different, and that's what differ between colonel Laurens and me."

Laurens let a noise of disagreement, "He's the one who is stupid, not me!" Nonetheless, they all sat down and circled the fire, Laurens sitting near Hamilton, as if disgusted with Andre's behavior.

Hamilton puffed a soundless laugh and ruffled his hair gently, and displayed quickly like it never happened. "He looked at you like you were stupid, but you are not, right?"

He examined the scene with a humorous interest, and he turned his eyes to Laurens, who was about to respond but turned his glance at the fire, with a sudden discomforting tone. "I am not your son, don't treat me like a child."

Hamilton blanched for a second, but then laughed dismissively. "That's right, " The next words were more like a whisper than anything, "you are not my son."

The fire was palpitating with stars as the three men watched the New York harbors swelled and expanded into wars and death. Tomorrow there will more of them dying, lying on these harbors, and women will mourn for their husbands' lives with their children, and tomorrow would be another day of the same procedures. Ten paces and fire like man, like soldiers, _like machines._

There was silence again, and Andre thought that was enough for the play was enough for the night, "Alright, I will let you rest, sirs." He pointed out a place more in deep of the cavern, knowing that if they will try to run, he will have more time to fire his musket within his reach. "Then, I wish you both a good night."

He knew he couldn't sleep, the guard shouldn't be down during night, even if they can have decent conversations didn't mean that they won't point their guns towards them in the fields. Killing beings didn't make them less than beings, he tried to convince himself, God have mercy and let him build something that was going to outlive him—

(No matter for what cause, he will write the reports down and being recognized as a source, as a help, as a painter, as a writer, as John André. And that would be enough.)

He looked at these rebels, sleep deprived and yet peaceful breathing, and begin to wonder what it will be to the rest of them. When he will give them to general Clinton's disposition, they would hardly survive, all because they choose to walk in that late hour without weapons near the British troops.

"Major." He let a soft gasp at the mention of his name in the smooth and quiet night. He hate to jettison his manners for a second and flushed in shame as he answered to the voice not afar from him.

"Yes?" He looked up with heavy eyelids and Hamilton was there, brilliant eyes shone in complementary as the blue in the night sky, flashing red as the flame exploded on the cerulean side. They brighten with enthusiasm when he looked back like a child who got his candy— _so who is the real kid here?_ — "Yes?" He repeated.

"Can we confer, sir?

His eyes were too blue to say no to this.

 

 

"You are asking me to _run_ , colonel Hamilton." He said angrily, bewildered. Beside them, Laurens was sleeping with a frown, caught in a dream that it didn't matter to be known. They lowered their voice.

Hamilton just nodded, "You will have to cross the New York's border with your men to get to general Clinton and escape the hellhole you just get yourself with commander Arnold." He said as a matter of fact tone, "I tell you now because I know you don't gave another choice. You would do it even I told you now."

"You claim that they will find out my identity, " He responded coldly and with authority. "but you have no prove."

He shrugged passively, "Yes. And I do not intent to give any."

He snorted and rubbed his sore shoulders while examining the man in front of him. Laurens was breathing with his chest rising too quick and too fast— _he is having a nightmare_ — he lowered his voice even more that it became barely a whisper.

"Whatever your words and implications, I will not run and let my men alone. I am not a _coward_." He snapped.

"In the contrary, sir." He looked sincere and Andre wondered if he was just a good at acting. "The massacre will help you escape, and I imagine it will be their honor to save your life." He smiled, "You are their leader, after all."

He continued as Andre turned his eyes, not wanting to meet anyone's glance as he felt embarrassment in him burning like that hot iron on his back when he was their prisoner— _rebels' prisoner_ —

"You will not be a coward if you choose to run, sir. This will be your last chance to escape, unless you want to be hang as a British spy and ending your life as a black dot in your legacy." He felt his eyes on him, knowing this would be the spot that hurt the most.

"You can restart your life when you will crossed the New York harbors and border," Each sentence already sounded like a death penalty in his ears but he didn't stopped him, "General Clinton may needs you, but you can always settle down, find a wife, you can find one easily with your manners, sir. The war is ending soon."

He thought about letting this conversation down, like it never happened, but his own mouth wouldn't shut up, like Laurens' own. He was turning back and forth in distress, caught the deepest pained nightmare.

"Why are you so sure?" His tongue moved on his own, curiosity and temptation mixed with the desire of living, "...Who are you?"

Hamilton looked prepared to this question already, he turned his eyes at Laurens, the sudden affection and fondness made him glow in the smaller fire crowd as he put his hands on Laurens' hair, smoothing each curls and laughed slowly as his breath smoothed down to a normal pace.

"This is such a lovely question, sir." His eyes were on Andre, but his hands were softly patting Laurens' head, "See, I am no philosopher, but you can always assume that I am a magician?" He winked with playfulness but he was not fooled.

"Alchemist?" He added with a chuckle.

"Of course, that's another term of endearment, if you like, major." He shrugged with a smile. "And you know, sir, that alchemist only reveal his little secret when he wants. " Laurens hummed with a happy sigh as Hamilton made little braids here and there.

For a second he thought that maybe they were making this all up, that when he will set his guards up Laurens will hit him hard in the head and stop pretending he was asleep and they will return to their quarters safely and he will just have been fooled all around like a puppet— but then he looked at Laurens' purr and Hamilton' eyes who shone with sincerity, he wondered all again if he was fooling himself around instead.

"Why would you do this? It wouldn't change anything if you didn't told me, you will still be saved, if I recalled your little story about my capture that supposedly will happen two days later." He asked with suspicion, still not buying the story.

He stayed silent for a moment, contemplating Laurens' face under the yellowed flame, hands still on his curly and messy locks. He looked pensive, yet he seemed to know the answer.

"There's that story about the man who throw away gold into the lake, you know?" He answered for himself by nodding in agreement.

"He was delight because he knew that he tell anyone about his new find, the whole village would be damned by the arrival numerous researchers— _alchemists you say_ —" He chuckled, "and possibly a new manufacturability installed in because of the potential gold and metal funds under the village."

"So he wasted it, because he didn't want to give away his field, his mill that he build with his own hands, his troop of sheep and the peace they held for so long that it no longer felt like a memory." He continued with a intensity of his own, "Things felt like a memory only when it's not linear. Death and peace are not."

"And _you_ ," he pointed him with vehemence but no hatred, _still no hatred_ — "you and the loyalists are the one who put that there, don't you see!" He stood up and raced to him, and Andre was almost ready to shoot until he took him by the collar, a musket on his head, but Hamilton didn't seem to care. "Listen, you are the gold that people will soon throw away."

His hand shook a bit as Hamilton pushed away the musket, "This doesn't scare me, sir. I have seen worse. I won't escape, no worries, I know you will still fire on my back when I will try to run. I have no choice but stay to stay here. I can't let Laurens alone here." He sighed and the intensity lost its weight, but it was still here.

"But you are different. You can choose, sir. Run when you still can. Run before you hear that splash of water. Run when you can still choose. Run before either sides choose to abandon you. _Save yourself when you still have the choice_."

"I—" This was suddenly too personal, his eyes implied a sincerity that surge a mere feeling of partnership— _like general Clinton's_ — and suddenly it was too much.

Suddenly he wanted to trust.

"Running away from what's wrong isn't cowardice," he snarled but lower his voice once Laurens began to stir. "it's _pugnacity_ , save your life to fight later."

(Trust was a double weapon, and it can always turn against you, or both of them.)

Suddenly he wanted to believe that this time it would turn the sky, a shot clear and unequivocal towards the blues of the clouds and it would only hurt the sun instead of themselves.

"I will think about it, colonel Hamilton."

By looking at his huge grin that spread on Hamilton's face, he knew that he already lose. It can be a double win, though.

"Fine. Now, please let me sleep. I wasted too much time with you." He turned to his designed spot sat down with dust and plain exhaustion, as his eyes slowly drifted to sleep he added, with light playfulness.

" _Alors, tombé sur mon charme?_ "

Andre was shocked by the sudden use of the foreign language, but soon recover with the same flirty tone—they almost looked like comrades but his musket will still point the direction of his heart if he ever try to run— " _Je peux pas vous accordé cela, colonel Hamilton._ "

His eyes went to Laurens, " _Par contre, je peux voir quelqu'un ici qui est fasciné par vous, colonel._ " Hamilton's ears went into a soft red and close his eyes with more force than needed.

"Good night, major Andre." He snapped and finally shut his mouth down.  
  
"Same wishes to you, colonel."

And if he saw Laurens' eyes were opened during the whole confrontation, he didn't say anything.

 

 

"Alexander!" He called as they arrived to their troops, dirt covered their boots as they clicked into the ground. He saw his man arrived, and quickly ordered him to attached the two rebels' wrists, to prevent any chance of retort.

"Yes, sir?" His lieutenant asked with a teen like enthusiasm— _he was only eighteen, though_ — "We are planning to cross the border tomorrow and–"

"Alexander." He stopped, and looked at him with curious eyes as if asking—what?— "When we will be inspected, if they are going to attack, we will have to retreat."

"You mean escape, sir?" His eyes widened in surprise, "But we should provide another plan!"

"Yes," he nodded, "I have signaled everyone already. But if the battle got intense, I need you to escape with me when the fight came to become messy."

"But! Our men—"

He put his hand on his neck, and sighed to calm himself. "We will need men to create the frog that will help us to escape."

"Alexander, you are the closest friend I've got."

His lieutenant looked embarrassed by this statement and rubbed his neck with uncertainty, "Sir, with all due respect, we have prepared this for so long now, it shouldn't have any mishaps—"

He set to leave but he still managed to let a last word to that, "Some alchemist told me this, and I trust him."

 

 

  
The prove was right in front of his eyes. And he probably shouldn't trust him that much to realize that the more he trusted, the possibility that will happen in the end will be more important.

They were disguised as merchants who brought a whole carriage of merchandises, but as they were inspecting Andre, they found the letter in his boots, emerging a correspondence between Arnold and general Washington. Knowing that this will be the evidence of his identity, their men soon start to revolt on his command.

As the fight increased and got bloody by the second, their men pushed the carriage and revealed the two rebels with a mouthful of products to cover their screams and whimpers and their wrists were burning in order to the rope to take place.

They took him as hostages, in which made the soldiers to stop their firing, and Hamilton's eyes were burning holes in him telling by a single glance to _run, because the support will arrive soon and you will have no choice but to be hang as a disgrace, you prick._

When the aides arrived and the chaos restarted again, he finally nodded to Hamilton and turned to his lieutenant.

"Alexander!"

Hamilton turned in shock as Laurens viewed him with a calculated expression. He didn't care for all it took when his lieutenant nodded to him, and got out of the field, stepping into the blue mixed red coats, and more blood as it slowly dripped on his face to his chin and to his beige coat, reminding him that he will be red until the end of his life.

He examined warily the two rebels and with a quick glance, he detached their ropes and let their mouth the freedom to touch the spring's cold air while he whispered a thanks onto Hamilton's ear.

"Told you to run, goddamnit!" Hamilton yelled through the chaos of gun fires and swords twinkling into the void, the sky was tainted by a shade of crimson as the air smelled like iron and expired meat. " _Go_!"

He ran as fast as he can, not forgetting to drag his lieutenant too— behind him he heard _voices_ — and a quick glance he found Hamilton and Laurens back to back, each one a weapon in hand, probably from the victims in this useless massacre.

"If we make this alive, Laurens. I will tell you." 

"Of course, I supposed I can count on you too. You have a lot of work to do, I know."

As he ran forwards, he heard another chance, another sentences and another play, but the same words, the same syllables.

_Don't die on me._

He had hope he didn't that gunshot. That cry. And he regretted to take a last glance behind, Laurens' in Hamilton's arms, bleeding and suffocating to breathe. 

Laurens had been shot in the sides.

He whispered something to Hamilton's ears and his hands were grasping his coats, as if he wanted to yell but had no time nor force to say another word. He looked as Laurens preparing to stand but failed, he looked as Hamilton trying to hold him close, saying things he couldn't hear and couldn't bring to a meaning other than _don't die on me._

_Don't die on me— don't die on me— the screams were screaming._

He had hope for another play, but it seemed that they all took the wrong roles to be fit in a happy ending.

The screams became louder as he ran, and never turn back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rip Laurens  
> PLZ YELL AT ME 
> 
> AND REC for Edvin!!!!!!!!!! Their fic iS AMAZING!!! Plz check it out!!!  
> http://archiveofourown.org/works/9820232/chapters/22049579
> 
> Plz plz yell at me I need to be slapped


	10. In which... Wait! (One last thought)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Laurens is still alive for one chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay and thank you for still reading this crap i jxksjkkd

The sound was behind the chirping birds, was behind the outrageous cannons, was behind and beyond the streets, it was here. Brawls and screams and rings were gathering in this one, small place, and all he can felt was them—he can felt on this bubble of crowd that sometimes, only them remained.

The tavern was louder than the sound of the sky.

He was looked around, the crowd had only disappeared, reduced to three persons beside him, one having his arm draped over his shoulder, a liquor on his hand.

It was impossible to settle the time, but somehow he knew, he just knew, to the core of his veins and blood, that they were a night— _in 1776_ —normal night, a dreamy one, a surreal one, but he knew, he knew it was real and he knew _it happened_.

Knew that he was dying, the same as he knew this will all end in his eyes, because he was recapping, he was remembering something he should listen, something he should remember.

His sides hurt. He blinked, breathed, refocused.

The images became clearer.

There was Lafayette, bragging about his plan to restore and replace a system that they were still unsure about, but his grin and assurance made him remember the hot-blooded gentleman that once backed him, support him and was standing on the top on that mount, screaming _history comes to be you, and it will continue with you, Laurens._

He wanted to correct him no grammatical errors, but the use of his name on this sentence. Because it was great, to dream to die as a hero, but when it came down like this, he did wished to erase his name out of the history book. He did nothing really that mattered, not that he hadn't tried.

He looked at himself in almost scenery transparency as he took Lafayette's hand and squeezed, hard and digging his nails on it, knowing it wouldn't hurt him since this was all a false backward glance, but he tried and tried and tried and _tried_ and he wanted to tell him over dried throat that he really tried— but he can't speak so he squeezed harder.

Lafayette was saying something to him and his brown eyes hadn't wavered with his grab, as if he can't feel him.

His eyes started to blur again, he blinked and it cleared again. The same scene, the same persons. He sighed in relief, because he wasn't ready to face the reality for now.

"Raise a glass to free—" Mulligan ended, so started the song, and he laughed before Mulligan finished his verse because they had always sang this, they had always been wanting this, they had dreamed to die together, in glory and honored as the sacrifices of this greater cause.

But they were wrong, they were too bold ~~(and scared)~~ to admit that they probably won't be remembered, wouldn't be talked after centuries, wouldn't be praised as anything but the soldiers of the rebels—in white and red sheets of history.  
Lafayette was in France and Mulligan in New York. There was no way to die together as they once promised.

Promises were such a audacious thing to do in war.

"Raise a glass to freedom!" Lafayette laughed out, a whiskey in hand. The liquor splashed through him and he didn't feel the wetness in his palm. He looked at his own from smiled and replied the same thing.

"Century." He whispered even he was sure nobody can hear him. "A century and we will raise a glass again." — _When we will see each other again and we will laughed about how stupid we were and we will have plenty of times to die together_ — but he didn't say. It was stupid already to talk at a group of his memories.

But promises at death always work. He can be sure of that.

He looked at the hand on his shoulder, it was a blur. He turned to the owner of its hand, the face blurred into a uncomplicated painting and he blinked.

It was still blur. He blinked and rubbed his eyes as hard as he can, but he can't named that person he seemed to be so closed to, he can't hear what the person was saying, but he was leading the song as the follow suit. That person wasn't looking at him, and he felt this supposed friend never will.

He closed his eyes for a moment, to ease the pain from his ribs— and the only thing he can felt was the soft pressure on his shoulder and the softer song from the voices of his comrades. The deeper one was Lafayette's, and the electric one was Mulligan—intense and heavy— and there was a smooth one, a even one— a defective one, _incomplete_.

Eclipse could only meant the encounter of the sun and the moon.

"Colonel Laurens!"

He examined the blurry face who seemed get lost in the song and stared intently at him, in order to discover the identity of this stranger when he turned to him— eyes blazing with a light that shouldn't exist in memories when everything became too clear for him.

The moonlight was too sweet to be cold, it slumped down to the beginning of words, the epitome of scene. He can see now, himself, Lafayette, Mulligan and—

That person was just here, smiling in a way he had never seen him do—too bright, too proud, too self-confidant— an arm around his shoulder, carelessly whispered in his ears, teasing, "John, sing it, you know the song."

"Colonel Laurens! _Laurens_!"

"John, tell it, you know. I know too." And then a hand was on his— he looked around nervously, but nobody was here, they were all _gone_ — "Tell them. And tell me what we have trust along the years."

As Laurens began to sing, and suddenly it was allowed to believe—

" _Fuck_ , wake up John!"

_Because his Father had warned him to find a wife. To had a life with peaceful transitions and children who will keep his legacy in charge._

_Because God had once forbidden him to choose what he really wanted. So he tried to find answers of his own. He had found nothing so he kept his Father's instructions._

_Because if God had given a chance to the lesser, he would gave one for him too._

_Because if Hamilton was there at the tavern, it meant that he was there twice. One time too much. One time less. One time he should grasp._

"They will tell the story of tonight—"

He wanted to grasp the fact their voice could only be complete with each other.

 

 

 

 

He was in a tent.

A under constructed tent, he realized. He was in that bed, paralyzed by the sharp and unbearable pain pressure and a doctor who was giving working to clear the blood out off his wound.

"Colonel Laurens, please do not move," the old man's voice implied urgency and authority, "we are doing what we can." And then said, he was out of his view, probably looking for something to kill him more than he already was.

"Guess I am a dead man, then." He pretended to shrug, but the pain was too astonishingly hard to work with when you can do nothing but laying on a useless sheet than go back to fight.

He had been shot before, scratched, to say the least. Sword wounds, prison torture in that cell of miserable silence and iron burns, but nothing, nothing can compare to the moment when the bullet entered his flesh and blood, nothing can be the same as a sliver harm, _nothing_ can be as merciless as _this_.

He was breathing ragingly, trying to take every opportunity to capture that air of hope— his vision started to waver again as he slowly turned his head and see a battlefield in full scale, and even in his lamest hours, he can still see that this was not today's rumble, because thousands of soldiers were dying by the minutes he set his eyes on that scene, and he can't unseen that figure standing high and brave when they circled down this person, fearless.

It was himself.

Something told him that this wasn't real, that this person wasn't him, wasn't the martyr he wanted to be, that lad was cautious, the stance protective— _brave but not reckless_ — not willing to die in that battlefield in glory.

Looking forward to _live_ — of wanting to hope for a life with something, with someone, he looked as if he found that light of his which he never really caught, he looked as if he wasn't ready to die, fear that almost crossed that face when the bullet entered his lungs.

The scene grew quieter by his surroundings, as he watched the person with the same features than him stumbled and fell on the ground as the battle continued without him. When an american soldier stepped on him without even knowing, he knew that liberty didn't include death.

Either these on bondage.

He blinked against his will— _the scene will change, he swore_ — but when he saw the corpse was staring back at him, he can't help but cough with embarrassment. He felt like he was eavesdropping himself, it was a brand new feeling.

The person was now in front of him—his skin was blue with a taint of green, and the blood handled on his mouth was making sure to tell Laurens that this person was not human.

"So, John Laurens." He sat on his bedside, and looked as if he weight nothing more than a feather. "Let me guess, you are dying." He laughed lightly, without any mockery. But it was full of a kind of regret that he would never understand.

He let a grunt he didn't know he was able to make. He wondered if he was hallucinating or it was just death who wanted to give him one last ride.

"Okay, okay." The man smoothed him with a fond eyes. "It's alright, it's not the first time."

Laurens couldn't talk, the bile and blood in his throat, but his glare made the copycat laughed, "What? You are me, and you know it."

"I— you died last time in South California, and you just have an exclusive view of it." he swung his legs, sitting on his bedside. He didn't know he was this childish. "So? What did you do this time again?"

He made himself near his mouth, listened, and nodded, "Oh, I see. You are caught by a redcoat twice this lifetime." He left a soft sigh, "Last time, we are just a prisoner of war once, colonel Laurens."

 _Don't dare to judge me, sir._ He wanted to say but only blood slowly move out of his mouth, _you are me. And if I am stupid, you are too, colonel Laurens._

"I know what you want to say, you know." He chuckled, "I am _you_."

He didn't want to say anything else— it was even tiring to mentally spoke to someone now— so he just nodded slowly and the person just let an agonizing sound and let his head rested on his hand.

"I am sorry, it's just that I have wait for this moment a lifetime." He pat his shoulders, even if it feel just a cold air on his open flesh, "Where's he?"

When he gave an impassioned eye to him, he shook his head in shock, and look around, "he's not here?"

 _What?_ "What?" He titled his head, "Where's he? I am mostly here for him. I get out of that place because he had disappeared." He shrugged, "God seems to have other plan than him."

"So?" He stared at him with the same eyes he once gazed in a lake, and it made him more sick than he already was. "Where is he?"

 _Who?_ "Who?" He laughed, "Okay so, a hint. It starts with an A."

He just flat swung his arms into his chest, but they just fly into it like they hit air. He didn't know why he was having a conversation with a spirit who didn't care less about his condition. "Okay, where is Alex?"

"Where is _Alexander_?" The spirit's eyes sparkled vividly, looking more alive than he should be. It shone with intensity and enthusiasm when he turned to him and whispered to his ears as if someone else aside him could hear him. "Hey! He's here!"

He frowned after he heard his order, "What, why can't I talk to him?" A beat and he let a gasp. "Oh yeah, you are dying."

He stood up, turned his back at him, and smiled with nostalgia, "I will see you and Alexander after, then." The man rose his hand on the sky and he blinked— _goddamnit stop blinking_ — and a glass was in his hand. His face was half-facing him, and his eyes told him he was still smiling. "I am happy to meet you again, colonel Laurens."

The glass was spilling water on his face as the spirit rose them higher until it was blindingly white and gold and orange and blue— he wasn't sure he heard it right when he blinked again and all disappeared, only Hamilton standing there with sweat and blood on his face.

"Oh, one last thing."

(He knew he heard it right.)

"Tell Alexander that I saw the glass he rose for me."

 

 

 

 

Hamilton was checking on him. He was beside the doctor, and gave advices as which place to apply special treatment and caution, the doctor seemed surprise by his knowledge on anatomy while Hamilton just let it pass by by saying he learned them back in college.

Minutes and hours passed by and it gave him pitiful time to think about his lasted hope and Hamilton's hopeless expression— as if he already gave up, as if he already predicted his ending, as if faithfulness was a fearful thing to do when facing life.

As Hamilton's eyes swept on his body, he was suddenly aware of his scars and his exposed chest. But as the pain grew worse by the minute and his eyes and body weaker by the seconds, he couldn't care for this matter for than two fractions.

"I am sorry, sir, and I address this very sincerely, " The doctor adjusted his glasses and sighed, "It's unfortunate but—" _but you have to understand his bullet entered just in between his ribs—_

"Can I see him please?" Hamilton's voice was ironically knowing as his eyes stayed on his, "Alone."

A trial of silence and the doctor acquiesced with a nod, "Please give me a sign if you ever need me, colonels." He said, and walked out of the room.

Hamilton moved his eyes off him and looked at a blank point which nobody can access expect him. His chest rose with quick paces with a sweaty forehead— _like he was the one dying here_ — and he closed his eyes, exhaling and inhaling. When he turned back, his expression was a smooth one, soften by heartbreaking silence.

He looked like he had aged all of a sudden, but then again, he never acted like his age, either.

Hamilton looked at him with a smile, a reluctant one, but he was trying. "You always want to know who I am, colonel Laurens." _But you called me John last time—_ before he can say anything ( _he can't say anything_ )— he sat down on his bedside. "Now's the perfect moment for a story telling."

He wanted to say _but_ _I_ _am_ _not_ _your_ _child_ but when Hamilton opened his mouth, he just listened. He had something that led people to listen to him. He had something soothing inside, broken inside that wait for people to complete him.

(And he was proud and bold enough to declare that he was the one who can always bring another side of him.)

A battle scar, and Hamilton was a type of its own. A distinguished form and a pinkish fleshed skin. His skin sang almost immediately with Hamilton as he started his melody.

 _How stands the glass around?_ He started with a question, the words slurred into a play itself as he continued with a intensity _no less than the patriots in the battlefield._  
_For shame you take no care, my boys,  
How stands the glass around?_

 _"Tell Alexander that I saw the glass he rose for me."_ The sentence slowly repeated in his brain, as much as his heart.

 _Let wine and mirth abound,_  
_The trumpet sound,  
The colors they do fly my boys,  
To fight, kill or wound,  
As you would be found_ , the voice cracked a little but he didn't bother to wonder why. _Who was singing again?_

_Contended with hard fare, my boys,  
On the cold ground._

He never liked cold, but he felt he was running out of warm. Someone held his hand but it was colder, so he guessed it didn't help.

 _O why, soldiers why?_  
_O why should we be melancholy boys,_  
O why soldiers why?  
Whose bus'ness is to die,

A pause and when Laurens lay his head on the hand, he suddenly felt hot, a fever maybe, then cold again.

 _What? Sighing? Fye!_  
_Drink on, drown fear, be jolly boys,_  
'Tis he, you or I, wet, hot, cold or dry,  
We're always bound to follow boys,  
And scorn to

He finished almost as a whisper, but the room was only full of silence and ragged breathing, it was impossible to unheard what he finished.

_fly._

Another hand came to tackled in his hair, as the song ended. He blinked and looked at Hamilton, pale but confident, said with a smile, "I am an good artist, don't you think?"

He nodded without actually really hearing, he agreed simply because the hand was comforting and that person beside him was Hamilton.

"It was the song I once sang before the duel," he declared, "I was drunk and Burr was there, I wanted to impress him."

He continued, knowing that he couldn't really understand anyway, "I was born in a small place of Caribbean, longing for a way to get out of the world and the world for me was that clerkship and the sea." Laurens wanted to complain that he wasn't here to listen to his life story but then again the hand was smooth and welcoming so he let him speak.

"I came here, wanting to get a scholarship and my sponsors wanted me to be a doctor. But then this happened, " he gestured the room, "and I found you, Lafayette and Mulligan. Ah, and the war was won."

The relief of hearing this was strange and wonderful at the same time, considered that he just trusted someone with no particular prove to this prediction. But he was Hamilton, so did that _really_ matter?

"You died at South California, and we started a republic with general Washington." He chuckled as he touched his hair with a smile, "I died at a duel with Burr. But that is not important."

He put his hands on his side as he swept Laurens' sweaty hair out of his sight as he gasped at Hamilton's condition. His clothes were ripped, teared off. His hands were touched by dust and blood. The bags under his eyes were there the last time he contemplated him. Hamilton looked pathetic.

(Then he wondered what he looked like now.)

"You could be with us, you know. I was planning to get you a place in the government," his eyes moved to his scar and his hand just made circle on his chest, "you could be secretary of treasury and you could have done so much more— so much more— _so much_ —" he stopped, like he didn't have the force to continue, "but we just can't just be calm and stop wondering in the woods at night."

He stepped out and started pacing slowly, speaking more to himself than to him, "I could have volunteered to South California, I planned this. I write all I could and you could take them and claim to be yours but I am too abrasive—I am too stupid to think that it would be this easy it shouldn't it _can't_ —"

Laurens didn't know where he found the force, but he tucked at Hamilton's sleeve and he looked up from the ground and everything stopped again.

The sheer shock of Hamilton's face and the eyes were the same when he first time met them and it felt like a rotational history— a repeating one. But somehow he didn't mind to watch this play until the end of the time.

A hiccup destroyed the icy melody when Hamilton just reached out and gave him a light embrace, lighter than the sky— impossible to catch and possibly nonexistent. Hamilton buried his head on his shoulder, as he was just here, can't move, can't put his hand on his hair, can't shushed him into sleep, can't put his pain away— _can't live_.

"I am not sorry—" Another hiccup, "I am not sorry, don't bother forgive me, don't bother to do anything, I will make the world– safe," the hiccups won't stop as he buried his head deeper into that messy hair of his, "I will– do anything to make the world safe– just..."

_Just don't die on me._

_Liar_ , he said to himself. _Liar. You know that if I lived you wouldn't be alive right now._

Laurens just laughed, coughed blood on Hamilton's hair but he just continued laughing. _So you think you are the one wrong here, Hamilton?_

_So you think I don't know about what you really want?_

_So you think I don't know about your thoughts?_

_So you think I am now willing to die?_

He gazed at the blank space, a couple of red hair in his vision, he closed his eyes, whispered the voice that he knew was his— he knew Hamilton will reply with the same voice he didn't have the chance to encounter.

"I saw the glass you raise, Alexander."

His shoulder was wet as Hamilton held him tighter, but he let out a tiny laugh that was torn between Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens.

It broke into a new tie, between Philip Hamilton and John Laurens.

"I heard your telling about our story of tonight, John."

And it didn't really matter in the end. It was a bond too strange to put a name, too much to put a label, too discrete to put on light.

"If you choose to die on me, then you owe me one, John."

(Too broken to be a bond. And too tied to be a good one.) 

"So please, do me a favor would you? Do never forgive me."

But it was okay for them, so it didn't matter in the end. 

 

 

He hoped it will be sunny the day of his funeral.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, it's really a turning point of the story, since Hamilton planned everything on the belief that Laurens will live. 
> 
> Do you ever felt like your characters die without your consent and all you can do is crying on their death even you basically control them? Sometimes they are alive and independent to the author. 
> 
> Thank you again for reading!! I would really appreciate a comment or a kudo but really, you reading this is already a blessing for me. Thank you so much!


	11. In which he left

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone dreams in this fic, Wash is not the exception here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am alive!!!!! Finals are one week away haha ha a ha  
> Thank you for much for your wait!!! *send cookies and cupcakes*

He dreamt of greens.

He dreamt of greenhouse, plantations. Crops and trees. They were no slaves for now. Good. Trees shadowed the lake that lay down beside them. They were no the ground sound of an undiscovered cannons. They were no shouts of attack, either retreat. No more commands and _please let me fight sir!_ Nothing but cotton flowers and vineyards.

He saw nothing but a blue sky and a pair of bluer eyes. He smiled as he approached Martha and gave her a kiss on her forehead. She laughed. _Good_. He took her hand and let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Martha's hand cupped his cheeks and titled her head, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he lied, "let's go home."

But she didn't move, and he didn't either. Because he controlled this hallucination— _the warrior's dream_ — and he knew he wasn't ready to go home. Then again, the hand he hold was warm enough to convince him that he wasn't the only one.

He leaded her to somewhere more empty, less trees— there was less trees, more _blue_ — and sat down. Martha eventually did the same.

"Is there home?" She asked, somewhat teasingly, "I haven't thought we own this land."

"I'm waiting, Martha." He heard himself saying, "Then we can go home."

"Oh," she let out a laugh, good, "sure thing, then. Let's wait."

Ridiculous, his mind suggested. All this was ridiculously wrong. He can almost hear the rolling of the cannonballs seven feet ahead of him, flags raising higher and higher to its defeat. Death was so much of a thought that it occurred to be nothing: a bullet. A chest. All you need in order to die.

(All you need to do in order to survive.)

Washington never thought war as a disgrace, it was foremost a spiritual honor and mostly, to prove it. It was the utmost act of declaration for representation, for a worldwide acceptance of their message. Yet nobody really thought about its message behind a bloodless lips, whispering out _America_. Nobody really figured out the rules behind this game.

Because there was none.

Because among words of equality— behind words of freedom—next to the words of pursuing a something more blunt than happiness— there will always be men created more equal than others, there will always be men be more free than others, there will always be men who deserve more happiness than others.

So they set their paces, and try to play the game with his own rule. Then pray for its success.

He closed his eyes and put a gentle hand on Martha's, felt the lightness gained him like waves, sat with Martha on the grassy knoll as if they were still spoiled children—and he was the brat that leaded their belle to some forbidden place stealing amorous affection— but he never was a Romantic, either one for illusion.

Then again, _what was he doing here?_

He should be in command, waiting for troops and ships and yet with the wind blasting on his cheeks, he thought about Burr.

With Hamilton gone—he frowned at his choice of word _gone gone gone_ — it was mostly colonel Burr who helped him with his correspondence. He ought to trust him reluctantly and he must acknowledged the boy's insight and strategy weren't much appreciated in his circle of commands. But he was as fast in his work as any general would wish for as an aide-de-camp.

As fast forward in his zeal might be, his thoughts were nothing but opaqueness and a citadel inside a cathedral, locked in double locks, and wouldn't revealed itself even sieged by the wrath of God himself. It just won't open, twist the lock for all you want, but it would nothing served to burn a fervor and for the unforgiving satisfaction of a cat.

All of this reminded him of Hamilton.

But it wasn't the same. Hamilton was way more expressive in his features. He smiled politely when asked for commands, he would laugh lightly when Washington refused his request. He, like Burr, would care about the staff, would care about equal pay, about his well-being. But somewhat, Burr's frown felt more relevant than Hamilton's chuckle, Burr's soft scold would somehow be more interesting than Hamilton's rant.

Burr felt more alive than Hamilton. More existent, more active.

 _Living_.

This only thought made him shiver in the warmth of his dream.

"Your Excellency!"

Suddenly yet with a lack of suddenness, Lafayette was running towards him—eyes squinted and shone joyfully under the sky's sly and smaller skies, sweat forming his peak on his wigs, smiling too big that it should probably hurt— he looked nothing like Washington, nothing similar in their features made them somewhat connected in any bloodline.

But time killed his faith of having children of his own, and time proved that Lafayette wasn't any different than a biological son blossomed in he and Martha's alliance. He almost open his arms to welcome him until he composed himself and waited for Lafayette to bow first.

Manners and ranks restrained him with crackled chains that rang like a military song in his ear, his head held naturally high, _forcefully high_ — his lips sealed and won't pursue a smile. His hands were behind mechanically and straightened his back. Without further thought, he replied, "Colonel."

 _Pathetic_.

Lafayette stopped and laughed knowingly, "General." The title suggest nothing between them, no more what an superior of his rank should be called, no more than subtle companionship and careful consideration.

His tone begged to differ.

All of his members seemed to be floating under soft control of words in Lafayette's voice. The delicate balance between childishness and grace reminded him that he could be his son— a wealthy, arrogant at last, a young man about twenty— that he could be give him advices, supplies, words and it was never enough—

He didn't have time to tell, to transfer, to deliver that message he hold so dear in his arms, he didn't have to time to send this to his friends when they died in the battlefields, didn't have time to whisper it out in Martha's ears, so he wouldn't—

There was just no _time_.

He balled his fists until it turned white. Washington sighed inwardly and finally resigned on his inner battle as he reached his hand to ruffled Lafayette's hair. The hand touched the tepid air. Lafayette was still grinning as if he was real.

Nothing but history's eyes— wary and somewhat weary ones on him, because he had everything to lose, he had everything to care— legacy had always be more of a burden than glory.

What is more devastating, having nothing to lose or having everything already? Either way, the only end of climbing to high, it was to fall with its gravity as consequence. Fall mercilessly into the abyss's eyes. _History_.

Lafayette was still looking at with incredibly innocent eyes. Maybe that was what he did imagine from him, a child. His chest fluttered in a lost spot, one he did thought disappeared after he knew he can't have children. It felt good. It was good.

Burr was the one stepping out, steady as always, but his eyes were clear and unequivocal, and just by looking at his eyes, he knew this wasn't the real Burr. Normally they would be shadowed by thick eyelashes and other things Washington didn't have time to figured out.

Lafayette shifted discretely to him, and Washington chuckled with how unpopular Burr was, and surely will be.

"Your Excellency. There are reports about..." And he went on for the delivers for the congressional support on soldier years of enlistment. How they would like to prolong the years to make this army more permanent and such. Hamilton would even worry about the numbers of boutons on their coats, it was ridiculous, but he had missed the ridiculous.

Burr frowned, "Your Excellency? Are you hearing myself?" The usual expressionless face tainted with slight red cheeks and he continued, "I assumed for one that this is important so I thought you—"

"I am listening, sir." He answered quickly, catching Burr's disappointed tilt in his voice, "Go on, colonel, I apologize for my behavior."

Burr practically beamed even though the face remained neutral. Washington never thought he would appreciate Burr's presence. Things changed, and the clouds were crashed like cottons, like nothing, like _air_.

If they are air, then Great Britain should renounce soon.

_They can't kill nothingness._

"Let's go to the vines, colonel," he said, pointing at a blind spot, a place he can't see, but it didn't matter, since he knew there would be trees. "I would like to further investigate the manner under the shade of trees, sir."

He patted the the grass, leaving a soft prickly touch, and looked up, Burr and Lafayette were gone, turned into the air of dreamers— the one that would led a fresh sent to every visitor. Martha was the sky, scraps were made of clouds and the birds were her eyes, looking to the world freely and without restraints.

They were gone too fast, he thought. He didn't have time to board subjects that mattered the most. _1781_ wasn't the year to loose his ties. Benjamin Tallmadge never really was invited, surely his subconscious mind would like to have that damn tie be loosen.

Then let it be.

He was about to pray, his own form of relaxation—talking about loosen ties— when he found himself eye-level with two young gentlemen when he kneeled down. He silenced himself completely, wondering if he should breathe, fear that this would shaken them out of their own dreams.

Under the shadows of uneven light that pierced the leaves, Washington put his thoughts aside and enjoyed the view for once. The wind quieted, retreat in silence and joy to this story of seek and hid.

Laurens was breathing evenly, yet somehow unsettled, never settled. He always looked on the edge of panic, fighting of just plain anxiousness playing in his features. Recklessness wasn't a virtue in this situation. His head rested on the shoulder of the other boy, blond and light brown twisted with sand-red.

However, Laurens didn't seemed to breathe the second after, either lulled in the sunshine as the other was. His skin was pale under the different shades, thick lashes weren't moving an inch, and Washington was about to try to wake him when the other man called out.

"Sir," he took a piece of his clothing and pulled it gently, "don't do this."

His reaching hand startled, retreating to its owner, "Why, boy?"

The boy's eyes slid to Laurens, lowered lashes covered its color, he made a sign to quiet, "Shh...", after this, he closed his eyes again, and the only conscious man in this room return to its unconsciousness.

For a moment, he found himself staring at the unknown whom had open his eyes once. Dreams weren't suppose to have strangers in them, he thought, they only made them familiar.

Washington sighed inwardly, choosing to sit beside the stranger, grass shifted every step he made, as if it was some kind of a promise. The man's head moved sideways spectacularly— _magically_ — but then again, a dream should not make sense, that was their only purpose of existing— and rest on his shoulder unambiguously still. His hair tickled more that the greens.

He should do something, anything—moved from his spot and just go away would be the best idea, or at least _try_ to— but he didn't move an inch, and so the boy rested still.

For a moment they just sat there, one unconscious, other conscious, yet Washington didn't bother himself to point out who was the one truly awake here. Wonders were going on there and here, but his thoughts didn't linger on either one. It didn't occurred to him to fall asleep in his own dream.

Burr and Laurens were sleeping on the other side of him, yet he didn't exactly know how they end up here. It didn't matter, because a blink of an eye could be a blink of eternalness, of self-consciousness or just a plain secondary thought, no need for further elaboration.

Just as he wondered there watching three boys drowned into a lake of dreams in dreams, he guessed that this was liberty. Liberty was when you can be whenever you want, be with who you want to be and think what you wish. To dream with what he believed, was liberty. To live with what he believed, was liberty. To die with what he believed, was liberty.

(With the double ration of rum to all his soldiers, at 4th of July, he once proudly read:

" _We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness_ —"

He had paused for barely a breath, a cheering of the patriots, a soft gasp that didn't escaped his throat for all his life. Liberty was so easy to be pronounced, to be written, to be registered in history— but his head were revolting with words struck in his chest for the longest time _history has its—_

Freedom was such a concept that he didn't even know if history had an idea what it was. Eyes couldn't reach pursuit of happiness, either life. Liberty was too vast a term to be used on paper, and on _them_.

Under the giddy sunlight he had blinked, realizing that he had truly aged.)

"Sir." A sheepish voice dragged him back to his somewhat reality ground and he looked down, the boy looked at him and it stuck him for the first time about his familiarity with Hamilton and maybe because of this sudden realization, it didn't occur to him to respond, so the boy continued.

His face was blurred by some sort of miraculous light, but his eyes were sternly blue. He looked like Hamilton, but nothing, nothing can make him Hamilton. Nothing in this young, cheerful face can be a trace of Hamilton he knew now. Nothing for the life of him he can imagine Hamilton, smiling wide, without his casual frown about something no one knew, eyes clean and warm, no worries deep in his pupil.

(So maybe that was why he choose to interpreted it in dreams. Because they can't exist outside of mortal's mind. It was irrationally correct.)

"Sir," the boy repeated, as if he was scared that he wasn't listening, "General Washington."

Washington startled and gave him all his attention, it happened every time someone mention his duty for their country. "Yes?"

He looked at him with eyes almost too clear and too varnish to really hear what he was saying, "We are the dead."

"Pardon me?"

"We are the dead," he seemed to appreciate his confusion, "We will be this country's builders and underdogs shall not be remembered. _We are the dead_."

Washington stood up calmly, knowing full well that this boy was not Hamilton, rather than a boy, he was more of his conscience than anything else, but he can't help to be skeptical about the claim. "As you can see sir, I am not an underdog. I am by no means an ambitious man, but I believe that my name will not be left unsaid."

He didn't like to be in the eye of the people, it often dragged him into some sort of shock that what he was doing can be fault, can be mistaken, can be false. But the constant _fear_ of not being remembered chased him like a bullet, destined to one day land on his skull.

"Patriotism is such an odd word," the boy ignored his comment, "by means, I believe that you are no sanguine man, sir. But what if it's for your country? What if it's for oneself accomplishment?" His sharp eyes slid over him like sword, "We intentionally choose to disregard the possibility that we are doing evil, because we are doing it for something bigger, larger, in such scope that we ought to obey."

His reply—whatever it should be _I agree_ or _I refuse to second this absurdity_ , didn't matter—got swallowed by his own mind, because in front of him was _himself_ , even it was strikingly similar to Hamilton. He used Hamilton as a image, he thought guiltily, he used him to let out the words he feared that would sink, grudge his bones and whispers in his ears like the Devil's claws.

"We remember only the living of generations after institutions, and we," the boy linger a ghost finger on his chest, and Washington felt his heart grew tighter. "We are the dead, and the rest shall be history."

He closed his eyes, wanting this to end already, but Hamilton— _or whatever who this should be—_ mercilessly continued, without restraint, "Do not think about any heroism, sir. We are the dead as well as we are the responsible."

His throat felt dry as he cracked syllables out of his mouth, "What do you mean?"

The boy just looked at him with piercing eyes, and Washington knew he wasn't looking at him, but at something more formed, consistent, real. _Depiction of what? History?_ He wanted to ask, _history would never answer, it is too busy to repeat its mistake to take care of mortals._

"You appreciate women, but never too much." the face slowly became more blurry as the letters flowed into his head, "You appreciate slavery, but never too much." The words felt like burning iron, imprinted onto his back, like a property he will never lose.

The last thing he heard before waking up made himself remember when he will ever go home, and wondered again if that was the only purpose he came into that dream in the first place.

"You care, but never too much."

The sweat on his forehead and on his palm made two impossible surfaces of cold water, drained by the memory of Burr and Laurens' little snores and the boy's silent eyes, big and unnaturally bright.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Burr reached him in the cold morning with almost a grin on his face, claiming for Hamilton and Laurens' returns. Well, one of them.

He didn't seemed to really understand what he felt about Laurens' (or Hamilton's) miscarriage. The invisible pressure on his shoulders loosen but not too much. They narrowed at the information of Laurens' death but not too much.

_"You care, but never too much."_

He sat on his desk with corresponding letters that had him to sign, no matter how much he trusted Burr throughout their journey, he didn't allowed him to use his signature. A quill and ink, and almost mechanically, he wrote down with numb fingers and a slight guilt down his guts:

_In a word, he had not a fault that I ever could discover, unless intrepidity bordering upon rashness could come under that denomination; and to this he was excited by the purest motives—_

He stopped abruptly, as if what he was doing was something outlawed, and when he turned, he saw Burr, standing there silently, eyes taking the view, or just lost in his own kind of grief, Washington had no idea.

"Are you alright, General Washington?", Burr startled at the set of eyes on him, "I know the loss of our dear colonel can affected —"

"We are the dead," he cut in, finally admitting his own admission, "Colonel Laurens just got there early. We are soon to follow."

When Burr stayed silence instead of questioning, he realized that maybe, with a spoonful of chances, he cared too, and most importantly, never too much. This thought strangely appeased him as he shivers for the morning wind or mind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sometimes he wondered if he can give Hamilton command of troops.

But that was impossible, he thought, as Hamilton himself stood in front of him, and reality slide in like sunlight into the cold spring, lightening the whole headquarters. Philip Hamilton _can't_ lead, one for his importance in his staff, but mostly for his injury.

He just came back to the headquarters that he remained on his post, working for the days he missed during his disappearance. He took pauses and breaks at times, but even when resting on his own, his mind did not seem to stop turning the gears inside.

Hamilton hadn't try to talk to anyone since he ever came back to the headquarters.

The red and blue bruises there and here were covered up by new clothing, but the thin line of his mouth never ceased to exist, as well as his will to speak.

Hamilton never was a loud person. Nevertheless, it was difficult to really watch the every day scene of greeting turned into short nods and bows. Burr first was somehow excited by Hamilton's return, he looked pleased to separate stack of work to him, but when he saw Hamilton's state, he grew distant again, but kept an eye on him.

Burr and Hamilton weren't exactly friends, they were both too quiet to be comfortable, too young to be have some kind of abstracted relationship. They were driven by their ambitions, and paths didn't intervened into one another.

They were his co-chief of staff, sitting next to each other, but that didn't made them any more develop any sort of remote friendship between their string of work and common goals.

"Son," Hamilton's back seemed to straighten more, "how have you been?"

"I have been eaten and sleeping normally, sir." he replied, a biter tone in his dry voice, "I just need time to re-adapt this distressful situation, I suppose I will need to apologize for any of my behavior that might offend you, General Washington."

Burr across the desk lift an eyebrow of curiosity, but didn't speak.

"I see." His temper rose under the self-defensive and biting end of Hamilton's breath, but choose to not act on it. "How has been your re-adaptation, to say?"

"Great." Hamilton's eyes looked perfectly exhausted, but the rest told Washington that the boy had fended for himself quite well, "Sir, this has not the slightest importance." He looked straight into his eyes, sharp and firm, "I want to promote myself to colonel Laurens' position."

"You are in the same rank." He plainly stated, while knowing full well what he really meant.

"I want to fight with him."

A heartbreaking silence followed and Washington felt like he betrayed some part of him but continued on, "No."

"Sir, I am ready for the field, trust me!" His eyes seemed to relive like real fire under the sun— _an illusion_ — "I have more experience than you can think of!"

It was so genuine that he almost forgot his injury and his importance of his army lay with the words, not the swords. "I know your past experiences, colonel Hamilton. There are plenty in this army who deserve colonel Laurens' more than you." He paused and try to soften the man by pausing a hand on his shoulder, "And you want to know something I have learned, son? Dying is easy—"

" _Living is harder._ " Hamilton said it faster and clearer than him, as if he had learned it by heart, "I know."

"I have accept my duty for three years," he slowed down and it suddenly sounded like a plea, "I meant to keep like this, but I didn't planned for my... misconduct that happened to be the reason of lieutenant-colonel Laurens' death," he visibly swallowed, "I wish to redeem myself."

"Of course, I presume that I have enough knowledge and skill to offer myself—"

"No." His hand left on his shoulder, gripping it lightly, "Your place is too crucial to be replaced, son." He rose his voice, assuming his authority, "I can't let you offer when candidates are everywhere!"

"Well, you will need to refuse them, I believe."

Hamilton rose his chin slightly, ready to confront him by any means. He never saw him like this, cheeks turned crimson by the intensity of this dispute, eyes blowing wide and challenging, daring, unconventional. He wondered if this was his real nature, obnoxiously twisting its way into arguments by defending his own.

It was a bold statement, but too different to be true.

"I can't." He turned his other hand on Hamilton's other shoulder, so he can face him clearly, "I can not promote you. One for your importance and for your disrespect, sir."

"Wha—"

"Enough." He was tired of all this tirade, "Go to your room, colonel. I do not wish to continue this any further and suffer from your continuous lack of formality."

He can feel Burr's eyes burning holes behind his back, trying to look through him.

"No I will not," Hamilton answered as he angrily wiped Washington's hands off his shoulders, "I am by all rights willing to wait for this post to be cleared—"

" _Son_ —"

"I am not your son!" Washington flinched a moment for the venom of his voice, "My Father is not in America— you will never understand— I am not your son and I will never be." His breath was raging, "I just need this command, for Laurens, for the Revolution, for—"

"You will have to stay here for the cause!" Washington sighed, trying to calm the rage growing inside him, "Do you think colonel Laurens would like you to die in battle? You are more desired here. You are more safe here."

Hamilton lost voice for a second, eyes deep and frustrated, and Washington grabbed the moment, "Your comrades need you alive, _son_ , I need you—"

"Call me son one more—!" Hamilton cried out, but something inside clicked, and his eyes blew impossibly wide, all his body seemed to tremble under some sort of invisible force, and he looked almost afraid to say another word. He closed his mouth and looked at the ground, still shaking the soul out of himself.

Silence strike thirteen like cloches, and Washington suddenly felt so tired, felt himself wanting to return to that peaceful dream under the vines, greens and sleeping soldiers. He missed time, as well as the sentence Hamilton can't bring himself to finish. _Time_.

He did not try to do any physical touch, but he lowered his voice, "Look at me, Philip."

Hamilton lifted his head but just to give a short bow, "Sir, I think I will need to go home."

He almost ask _do you have a home?_ but he restrained himself from starting another fight, "Philip,"

" _Sir_ , " Hamilton replied, "thank you for your service."

It was inappropriate, it was disrespectful, it was odd, it was _pretentious_ , but he found himself bowing back, and it felt alright, and it felt _almost_ normal as he said in return, "Thank you for your service."

Hamilton required for Burr's presence for a talk and as Burr stood with him, ready to leave, Hamilton turned again, bowing another time, and without sharing a word, they were gone.

Washington returned to his writing, pick up his quill and dripped into the ink:

_In a word, he had not a fault that I ever could discover, unless intrepidity bordering upon rashness could come under that denomination; and to this he was excited by the purest motives—_

He continued, with hopeless contempt to conceal his sorrow:

_and by means, he was among the living, and we are the dead. Shalt be happy that our dear friend can reach us out more than the reversal?_

Washington later burned the paper, knowing it was the only way to let it was the only way to let it reach John Laurens. The flames sparks made him remember of Hamilton, the cycle of birth and death.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Laurens may be dead but everyone will keep talking about him during this whole fic I swear
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!!! Every comments shall be treasured, loved and printed on my wall kksmd


	12. In which they negotiated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It gets better if you ignore the misogyny in this chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who still remember this story, thank you. For those who don't, well it's the story of a man who always makes Poor Life Decisions and still do.

There’s been a time since things made sense: his dead parents, his somewhat bearable cousin, Washington’s dislike, the weather and the strange fact it was mostly sunny these days— _the sun in his face was warming but really annoying_ —but also Philip Hamilton.

He never really gotten along with him— he never get along with anyone else, for the matter of fact— but never once he did felt this undeniable feeling of escaping a person, the dying need to avoid, to protect a vulnerable part of him of being seen, of being read so easily and casually by a stranger. The sentiment was overwhelming, odd, and tiring, so he did what his mind told him. Well, in some way.

Because Philip Hamilton was now staring at him, big unblinking eyes with the same color, the same nuance and— _damnit_ — the same shades since their first encounter.

Hamilton was not someone this impulsive—as much as he knew— Hamilton had ambitions, but calm go along with them. What he did today was proven that all Burr’s assumptions were monstrously false. Hamilton just hid better than most of his type. Burr frowned, wondering if His Excellency belonged to this category.

(Most of them despise men but die for them.)

His heart hammered in his chest as he remembered the other part of him who wanted to come closer, to come nearer this man with shining eyes and stiff smiles.

Burr didn't speak.

“Colonel Burr,” Hamilton began, and Burr waited, “are you with me?”

“ _Yes_ ,” he said, not really believing it.

He didn't know why Hamilton would like to see him at the first place— it was technically his last chance to see his fellow war soldiers, he was sure Hamilton had better interests to spend his last hour of the army being with a stranger with a pounding heart.

“Good, I assume you listened to my proposal for Congress, colonel Burr, _sir_?” The last word was biting, almost comic, like an inside joke only he can understand. Burr offered him an empty laugh.

“I am sorry to say sir, but you are no longer required to provide solutions for our cause.”

Hamilton shrugged, “Every citizen is required to offer solutions when necessary. Besides,” he smiled, “I will return shortly enough.”

Burr stopped his steps, causing Hamilton to turn to him, arching an eyebrow, “How so?”

There was a certain pride in his eyes that Burr can't decipher, “Because I am the best aide de champ, of course, Burr, sir.”

Burr frowned, “Why do you always say my name that way? And why did you want to talk with—“

“You had a lot more questions than our last reunion, sir.” He interrupted with a small huff, “I guess it's just habit. If it bothers you in any way, sir, I can change, maybe it's best for both of us.”

Hamilton’s eyes flickered stubbornly, he looked serious. Burr added quickly, “It's all fine, sir, I am actually quite… fond of this particular spelling.” He bit his lips, taken aback by his own comment, he stammered out, “Of-of course if you need to change, I don't mind neither, colonel.”

Hamilton’s eyes grew soft, and Burr stupidly felt that the embarrassment was somehow worth it. He laughed, “Isn't this whole business silly?” Hamilton walked around as if nervous, “This whole thing is silly, sir, don't mind me,” he paced around the ground and looked at the fumes in the distance, “I can't believe we are discussing this right now, why did I want to talk to you in the first place?”

“I don't know, fate?” Burr asked, mostly to himself.

“I don't believe in fate,” Hamilton snapped and stop his furious pacing, “it is ludicrous stuff.”

“I don't know,” he repeated, not really want to add his opinion, but do so anyway, “Patterns are created to be followed, and they are rules to be taken account to. How can you be sure about anything when you haven't seen it happening to yourself?”

Hamilton stared, laughing, “Do _you_?”

“There is nothing that I haven't seen in Greek Literature,” he argued, “but they are things even _Oedipus_ haven't see it coming.”

“Like right now,” he created a pistol with his hand and pointed it to Burr’s heart, Burr hoped he can't hear its increasing speed, “if I say that one day you are going to kill me, like _this_ ,” he slowly moved his fake pistol to his ribs, “I tell you that one day we will meet, sir, in a duel, and you will shoot me right between the ribs, and that this is fate, will you believe me?”

Hamilton’s finger pierced into the clothes, shaking, and eyes looking directly into him, but somehow they felt like they had ripped him apart, and find a past that Burr wasn't aware that he possessed. “ _Will you believe me?_ ”

His eyes were ironically faithful, seeking for an answer that maybe Burr can never give to him.

“ _No_ ,” Burr whispered, today was strangely cold and he suddenly missed the sun, “I would never do this to you.”

There was silence and the cold, and Hamilton’s finger against his ribs relaxed, “Good.”

For some reason, his knees felt weak, “Then why you wanted to talk with me?”

His hands lingered a while and retreated to its owner, “I trust you.”

Burr didn't know it was a reply for his answer or the reason of their encounter, “Pardon me?”

“You are Aaron Burr, _sir_ ,” Hamilton smiled, “that is why.”

“Because of my name?”

He laughed, “I said no more of these silly stuff about names, colonel. But you may think as you please.” Hamilton gave him a pat on the shoulder and walk ahead, “For my part, I will get going.”

Burr should let him go and ask no more questions. He should let this strange man with strange words out of his life, and whenever he shall see him again or not, they would be no more cross lines between them, he can feel it. Hamilton was no a man who would be closer than absolutely necessary. This will probably be the last he will ever speak to him with a personal setting, and Burr should be fine about it.

But he let his eyes wondered on Hamilton’s back and thought, _he was way too thin_. He seemed to be waved up by the wind, so Burr followed and put his hand on his shoulder to steady him. Hamilton’s eyes looked up, questioning, and Burr swore he only stopped him because he was too thin. Way too thin. It made a point that it was true.

“Colonel Burr, sir?”

“Ah—“ his mouth opened like a gasping fish, and he wanted to die right on the spot, “I-I was wondering if you had a safe place to stay—“

It was a mistake. Burr wasn't delusional enough to think that they were intimate or anything, but he was trying to come up with something, at least.

Hamilton’s head tilted to the side, “Why, sir, to be honest with you, I am quite broke. But I will manage to find a residence just fine,” he paused and then added belatedly, “thank you.”

Burr thought he was crazy, he had no doubt about it when he heard himself speak, “I know it may be sudden but I have a home in—“

Hamilton barked a laugh and Burr stiffed uneasily under his gaze, “I am not a maiden in need of defense, thank you very much.”

He looked at his bony structure, its shoulder arching to break under his grip and the fire in his eyes, he can't help but chuckled softly. Dealing with Hamilton was strangely difficult, he realized.

“Yes, you are five feet and six man with no need of sleep so you can just wonder around the colony and trespassing into property and find your way out.”

“First of all, it's five feet and _seven_ ,” he pointed out, “and I will find my way out, you can count me on that.”

“But you don't have a plan, you just hate mine!”

“I don't want any help, can't you see that? I am better off my own than in any of you,” he suddenly lowered his voice, and took a step aback from him, “and you know you all will be better off without me. _Laurens_ —“

Burr rubbed his temples, he didn't want to talk about this now, “That is not the point, Hamilton. I just want to offer you an solution for—"

“I don't need it nor want it!” He growled, “You should stay away from me.”

Burr was quiet for a moment, not hurt— _not at all_ —just thinking, “How about this, I—“

“I said—“

“Goddamnit, Hamilton! Listen for a while, I swear your pride will be the death of us all!” He cried, losing his temper for once and for all. Hamilton flinched, his nails digging right into the skin, and murmured so quietly that he almost missed the phrase, “I am trying not to.”

He ignored the slight guilt as he watched Hamilton’s knuckles became whiter by the seconds, “I was trying to have a negotiation here, colonel.”

“I am listening,” he said. 

“Installing in my home will not be no cost. Since no one is currently there, I need you to do a renovation,” before he had time to protest, Burr continued, “to put this in perspective, a secretary.”

“A _housewife_.” He snapped.

“If you had this much resonance with women,” Burr shrugged, “then so be it.”

“I am _not_ —“

“In exchange,” he drawled, “I will accept any request you propose.”

He didn't know what he wanted, to be honest. It had no advantage on his side, neither any purpose in this situation. He was literally begging, no matter how indulgent he looked. Indulgence was for people with nothing to lose, and then he found himself with something to hold on— this cause—his home—his future—

_Hamilton?_

The man in question was quiet and almost sad when he said, “Really?”

He can not bear to hear his answer, “ _Yes_.”

“How do I know you won't use this against me the next time we go toe to toe?” He asked, his tone was oddly sad.

“You had nothing to lose,” _you have nothing_ , “besides, you said you trust me, why stop now?”

Hamilton cracked a smile, and Burr felt something beautiful had broken inside him,“I guess you are right, colonel.”

“Philip,” he sighed, he still have no idea what he was doing, but he didn't care much now, “I am not trying to obliged you into anything, and honestly, I wouldn't want to be involved into this any further than trying… to be a friend, I think.” His cheeks reddened despite himself and became redder with silence.

Hamilton’s eyes widen just a bit before laughing in that high pitch voice that Burr thought for one moment that he was not the hysterical man here. His sand like hair got into his eyes as he arced and put his hands on his mouth, trying to stop himself. There was tears in his eyes. He will never understand him, he thought, but that didn't held too much importance.

Its presence was enough.

“Pardon me,” he declared between huffs of laughter, “I haven't thought this kind of confession possible,” he paused, still not recovering from his wave of hysteria, “let's say… a month ago.” His eyes wavered into some kind of parallel history in which he stood right between it. It was terrifying, so Burr didn't question it.

“I kindly take this into consideration, sir,” he grumbled, “so?”

It took a few moments before the laughter died down, and there was a sigh of defeat, “I want two things.”

“Two?” He frowned, “I see. I second.”

“This easily?”his tone was sad, “I don't see why.”

Burr made a sign to just go on, and Hamilton quietly continued, “Eliza, Elizabeth _Ha_ — _Schuyler_ ,” his voice was at its usual again, as if he was playing some trick and he was doom to lose before he even began the game, “Angelica and Margarita Schuyler, you happen to know them, or I am wrong?”

“The daughters of general Schuyler,” he replied, “what do you want?”

Hamilton seemed to find the ground interesting enough that his eyes stayed there, “I know they don't need my ramblings, but—“ he stood there agape, look at him, then on the ground again. There were shouting of soldiers behind them, it was ration time. “I want you to look after them. There's not much you can do, I understand. But… just visit them by act of courtesy and help them when they are in— _um_ — trouble…” he bit his lips, “yes?”

The tables had turned, and surprisingly, Burr didn't really appreciate it, “Why, do you happen to set eyes on one of the sisters, son?” It was destined to be light, but somehow it turned into a bitter tone. Burr ignored it.

“ _Two_ ,” Hamilton added hastily, “You will not ask me anything during my stay at your residence. My personal engagement and activities will be private and confidential. My stay will be temporary, and I will keep in check of any payment necessary for my stay and will pay any form of rent in the upcoming dates.”

“ _God_ , Hamilton,” he sighed in defeat, “ _I shall follow thee, Caesar_.”

He smirked, “That depends if you are Cassius or Antony.”

“ _Brutus_ ,” he replied, “I will tell you the address and a correspondent that will confirm your stay.” He found some ink and paper in his sewed pocket and wrote with an ugly hand the information, “Beware of the Idles of March on your way out.”

“ _Men at some times are master of their fates, dear Brutus,_ ” Hamilton chuckled as he took the inscribed paper and stuffed it into his pocket, “'tis well.”

When Hamilton marched with that invisible crown in his head, Burr remembered that he still didn't know why he was called in the first place.

 

Washington was tired.

It had been a long time since, he reasoned, but they both knew that the end of war was starting, and there was not enough soldiers if they wanted to surround the British in Yorktown.

Hamilton sent one or two letters under three months of battles, trainings, and formation. Burr didn't opened them yet, for fear that if he open them too soon, they will be no more letters from him. Anyway, he was preoccupied with tasks and commands, but that was more an excuse than the real bother.

“Colonel,” Washington’s voice was stern and firm, “when general Lafayette is expecting to return?”

“Soon, His Excellency,” he said, “general Lafayette will bring the supplies we dearly lack, sir.”

Washington’s hands went to rub his temples tiredly, “I am aware,” he said, “there is just not enough time, and I need assistance.”

“ _Soon_ ,” he knew that Washington wasn't trusting him, and fair enough, he didn't either. But there was some kind of partnership that transcended from the paternity the general usually express toward his fellows, and Burr didn't mind much that affection refused to mingle in their affair.

Still, sometimes he wanted to rub the furrow between his general’s brows until it smoothed by the touch.

 

There were tears in Washington’s eyes when Lafayette returned.

The man vibrated with energy, and wrapped his arms around him, Lafayette did the same. Washington’s hat was lost somewhere and his hair damped with sweat. He looked like a father finding his long lost son. All this happened for a second, then the general composed himself and was ready to receive his subordinate. 

When Lafayette mentioned that Hamilton was needed for his plan, Washington looked almost relived.

“Sir, he knows how to do with the trenches, and he is fluent in french, which gives us a stronger connection for our french army.” Lafayette reasoned, unsure, “I mean, you have to use him eventually—“

His Excellency held a hand, “ _I know_.”

There were exchanges in their manners that Burr won't comprehend, but right now his heart pumped with anticipation of something bigger, something worth fighting for—

In this dread of death, dreams seemed to be more resilient than ever. The heart arched terribly for freedom, but mostly to the release of that dread.

In war, there was no moral superiority, only the superiority of god, to know when to be blown up. But there was the security of mind, where he told himself that all was worth it, worth a sacrifice, worth the fear, the pain, the adrenaline when your musket pierce one’s chest, worth the doubt of sanity, worth the nightmares.

They planned to bring Hamilton back within two weeks.  

  

“I am sorry about colonel Laurens’ death,” he found himself saying to Lafayette, his smile dimmed as the words washed through him.

“He is a brave soldier, he still is,” that was all he said, and then, “take care of Hamilton, he seems to trust you.”

And he was gone, with words trembling in his chest and heart heavy with the weight of them. 

 

_Dear ~~Mr~~. Col.Burr,_

_I am now comfortably installed in your room. I sincerely apologize in advance for the numerous change that I will bring to_ _your Household—the room looks very ~~simple~~ Humble, yet it is very neat and have some lack of personal perspectives. I_ _assure you they will be positive change that you will be thrilled to encounter at your return._

_Please do not forget our Negotiation._

_Yr. Obv Sev,_

  
_P. Ham._

At the very end there was a line crossed, barely visible,

~~I am sorry for the lack of neatness and I do not wish to waste another paper for this silly letter, therefore it is not pretense to any offense. I wish you are—~~

The rest was cut off by splashes of ink, there were even scratches of quill that broke the fine tissues of the paper a little. Burr gently folded the paper and set it aside. The other letter was a complete note of Hamilton's spending and a small _two months spending_ on the side bar. It looked like Hamilton's writing. 

He waited for his return. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to TheAnswerIsAlways42, thank you so much for giving me the force to finish this chapter (however short)! And as always, thank you for reading!


	13. In which she hid (End Of Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maria has been thinking of nothing exceptionally good, but nothing bad neither.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a year i can explain i  
> (also it’s short please forgive me)

 

 

Manhattan was a crowded city, and sometimes things get missed without nobody noticing. Great men did great things and things get undone by others. Others did bad things and were saved by other great men. Thus the cycle of life, watching great things pass by in a crowded city. In this way, things get forgotten, and eventually, they get better.

She wasn’t sure if covering her face would make her more invisible than before.

It is for the best, she thought, I wouldn’t want to see someone with a purpled eye either. It is distracting at its best.

“If you want,” James had said, caressing her face, “I could add another one.”

She had nodded obediently, knowing her child is somewhere behind him. She knew this will be over soon. Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, the sunlight would creep in and shower her face, her body, and soon she would feel the release of her mind, the subconscious dimming, and bath in the golden light of the morning sky.

Maria wouldn’t dare to make too much movement, knowing how fragile a window was. It broke so easily, too easily, just when he had slammed her on the wooden wall, it made a crack somewhere behind her, and she didn’t want to know where exactly the damage was, for it would cost too much mind and money.

Great men did great things. She did what was enough.

The streets were dirty, she thought as she scrolled down the streets of New York. Were they mingled with my shoes?

The church’s door was opened, so she lifted up her dress a bit, and went in quietly, scared that she might have disturbed the unvoiced prayers to Heaven.

There was a loud chatter.

“General Washington is an able man,” someone exclaimed proudly, as young men often do, “we will win this war! Besides, it’s not like the French are all scums...”

“It’s useless! How do you think God will understand this matter of worthless uprising? Our Majesty is much more founded,” an old man blabbered next, waving his wooden cane, “and most importantly,” the rubbed his temples in distress, “they have God on their side!”

The chatters almost broke into a fight, yet Maria didn’t move nor speak to prevent anything. She didn’t know much about the war that was going on somewhere in this land and didn’t understand what they were referring by ‘us’ and ‘them’, didn’t need to, for these were others’ job.

“Please, misters,” the priest supplied, “let us set our differences and embrace our neighbors,” he said, weaker by the second, “ i- in this peaceful day of Sunday morning...”

A woman entered, followed by another two, all smiling and probably not aware of the previous fight recently occurred in the holiest place Manhattan can find. There were not much anyway.

She followed them secretly, gazing at their garments decorated with fine cloth and patterned that suggested great lining, daughters of some duke, she thought. She had read this somewhere from the tender age of her girlhood.

“What’s the matter here? Talk of war?” One of the woman cried, dress on flame, eyes as bright as the stars she had seen during countless sleepless nights, “ _If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all men liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him._ ”

“Oh, Angie,” another said, “stop showing off and let us go. Father said we were not to be waited, one hearing only.”

Their dresses trailed along the now silent church, settled beside her. Maria tried to walk away, away from them or others, it didn’t matter — no one sit around a —

A hand pressed her own gently, “Here, miss,” she turned, the woman’s dress was a vibrant blue. She wondered if it would be as smooth as it appeared to be, “I hope you are not frightened.”

“I’m not,” and she will if the woman didn’t go away right now right then.

“I’m Elizabeth,” she said, “I haven’t seen you around. Manhattan is full of bright colors, right?”

And that Elizabeth smiled, a kind little thing, Maria realized. And she tensed even further, because kind little things were not what you usually find in a Sunday morning in a damn church.

“Stop talking!” Someone said beside them, and so Elizabeth just gave her a sheepish smile and looked ahead and blessedly leaved her alone.

It was not what you usually find in a church, those high born duchesses, she thought, crossing her arms, protecting her from whatever god wished to say to them, churches weren’t made for some fancies, something poor had been mixed in the past that was too difficult to point out these days.

And the voices came back.

“Eliza,” her sister whispered. “Is the man still here?”

The woman beside her blushed a soft scarlet. Beautiful, Maria thinks belatedly. _She’s young._ “No, I haven’t see him yet,” she whispered back. And there was a soft gasp.

“Angie,” she said. “Ah-yes, I-I think he’s here.”

The youngest one sighed. “I guess we’re going to spend more time here than anticipated.”

Maria sank his head lower, just in case praying works for them to stop. _They are loud._

“You know this man, right?” Elizabeth asked. She didn’t want to know to whom but knows anyway. “Angie, you said you have talked to him when we were visiting Martha.”

Someone or something made a noise. “I met him once, he splashed water on my face.”

“Why is he here? I have seen him for two days in a row.”

Maria looked at her hands, and quietly moved her feet underneath her dress. She will move. She can do things like moving and going out of this Church that won’t shut up.

“I don’t know,” the other said. “I’m going to talk with him, Eliza. Or do you want to?”

There was, thankfully, a moment of silence. And then she proceeded in opening her mouth again. “I’m okay. Please do, Angie—go.”

She stood up, and Maria did too. She was glad that someone like her can hide her discomfort. She could just pretend that she was going away with her. She will cause no disturbance. She can walk away without a sound, like a snake, her mind supplied. James flashed in her head.

She needed to go _now_.

The woman raised an eyebrow at her gesture, but didn’t say anything. Elizabeth took her hand softly, and Maria was a little proud that she didn’t make a fuzz out of it. Eliza was smiling.

“Hey, you are going?” She asked. “It was nice to meet you.”

She nodded, already looking at Eliza’s sister’s departing figure. She needed to catch her. She mumbled something that she believed to be thank you, and retreated her hand. If Eliza knew what she was up to, she didn’t mention it.

“What’s your name?” She said when Maria couldn’t even see her eyes. She bet it was some deep, lovely brown.

But that woman is already walking up to that man and she didn’t want to walk out alone, she can’t. So she pretend that didn’t heard what she had said, and walked fast to her.

She didn’t want to eavesdrop, but she heard it anyway. Her hands were clamped with sweat when she walked out that Church. Something like this:

He: Angelica.

She: You remember me.

He: I do.

She: Why are you here?

He: I’m here to deliver the news.

She: What?

And she heard a cry, a triumph. Her dress trailed on the ground, and she stopped, just a moment, turned back.

Blooming voice, and the woman beside him opened her mouth, gasping at his outburst.

“Yorktown is won!” It was that man. That cry was choked and infectious. A joy from the Church, and from the world outside her. “We won!” And she closed her eyes and her feet decided to stay for awhile, just awhile.

The victory was passed from every other person, and she closed them harder, until she saw stars and _we won, we won, we won._

She never felt so bored by a victory in her life.

Fighting, getting away from James was a victory, fighting, taking her children with her at times was a victory. Walking outside was a victory.

“What,” she whispered to the overjoyed crowd. Nobody will hear her. “Is Yorktown?”

“It’s a major battle that we just won,” Eliza was leaning on the pole of the Church. “You didn’t know that?”

“No,” she said.

Eliza hummed, “Then you can ask me. We have plenty of time here. They won’t stop being monkeys for so long.”

Maria didn’t know if she should laugh, so she didn’t. “Who’s that man you were talking about?”

“You were listening?” She said. Maria was just about to run away when Eliza laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s not exactly a secret.” But she leaned close anyway. A tint of red on her cheek. “I don’t know his name, but—“

“You like him?” She asked.

She smiled, treads of black hair shining under the sun. “Yeah, his eyes are nice.”

“You know his name?”

“Angelica,” she said, pointed at the woman beside him. “My sister told me that his name is Philip.”

She nodded. Maria lifted her head a little higher. The sky wasn’t as blue as she’d like to. She didn’t know her, she should probably go. She definitely needed to go before James found her missing.

“Do you imagine a future with him?” She asked, and bit her tongue until it bled.

“To be honest?” She grinned sheepishly. “I sometimes do. I imagine us getting married and have children that bear our names.”

“That’s great.”

“Thank you!” She said, then laughed a little. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“You,” she said. “Your future.”

Maria looked at the talking couple there. Only Angelica seemed to be talking now. The man was smiling, looking at his hands, as if he achieved something only he himself knew.

She thought she understand that too, in some ways.

“Yorktown,” she said. “My future is Yorktown.”

She pointed at the man. “I think your Philip here thinks the same too, possibly.”

 

* * *

 

 Jefferson liked France, and also knew what was to come. Yorktown was the beginning, and Hamilton was the next.

He hummed La Marseillaise, watching the blue sky flowing with the blue ocean. Perhaps he returned far too early this time.

“Sir, excuse me,” he said. “Which year we are now?”

The man looked as if he were crazy. He wondered if everyone gave him that look where he even remotely mention the name of Mirabeau in France. _Qui est-il, monsieur Jefferson?_ “Eighty-nine, sir.”

He nodded, holding the deck of the ship just before him.

Just like the last time, then.

 

* * *

 

”Maria,” she said. Eliza stopped and smiled. 

“Sorry?” 

“Maria is my name,” she said, trying not to fix the ground for too long. 

“Mine’s Eliza,” she answered. 

She knew that. So she offered a weak tilt of her lips, and Eliza laughed, her hands soft on her dress. 

“I already told you that, didn’t I.” 

“No,” she said. “I think I didn’t hear it.” 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternatively, the conversation between angelica & ham went like this: https://youtu.be/Hgv915Yqp9c 
> 
> Part one ends with Jefferson’s return. As you may have noticed, I have been off the fandom lately, so I am not sure if part two will ever exist. I will see the support it gets, mostly. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and have a great summer! Thank you so much for sticking with my (very) unregular schedule!


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